Taken
by LemonSupreme
Summary: Ravaged by grief, Bass Monroe agrees to do something he would have never considered before. When Charlie is thrust into the trunk of a Cutlass Ciera, she fears for her life. A fighter by nature, she vows to escape from her seemingly crazed captor – that is, until she realizes that under all that swirling darkness, there might be more to this man than she'd imagined. Charloe AU
1. Chapter 1: Boston

**When I first started posting this story, I only did so on AO3. I decided to go ahead and post it here too. I'll put the first three chaps up today and I'm just a few days away from having chapter 4 ready to post, so when I put that one up - I'll do so on both sites at once.**

 **This is a birthday fic for Romeokijai. :)**

* * *

 **Prologue Part 1: Charlie (one year ago)**

The sky is heavy with low, angry clouds. The swirling wind whips at her hair and pulls at her clothes. She doesn't seem to hear the distant church bells or feel the sting of cold spring rain on her face. Her blurry gaze is single-mindedly focused on the pile of freshly dug earth at her feet and the sad little clutch of wilting daisies that lies upon it.

Danny.

Charlie can't believe he's gone. Danny wasn't just her little brother. He was her best friend, her partner in crime, the only one who really ever _got_ her. He was her anchor. He wasn't supposed to leave her. Now she struggles to imagine this world without him in it.

She looks blankly around the deserted cemetery, noticing for the first time that the others have gone. Not that there were that many people who came. She and Danny were new in town, and they hadn't had a chance to make many friends yet.

Now he never would.

Charlie's mind wanders to a time when she was still quite small and their Mom had implored her to never let go of her brother's hand. They'd been in Target, and Charlie had dutifully held the chubby fingers, sticky with grape lollipop residue. Later, she took the request to heart, always looking out for her little brother.

Charlie bites her lip. She should have never let go of his hand.

Her eyes swim with fresh tears as she remembers the day when everything changed.

" _It's you and me, Kid." Danny's grin had been wide and his teeth a sparkling white._

" _Who you calling, Kid, Kid?" She'd asked, punching her brother playfully in the arm. They were walking through the doors of a homeless shelter. The place reeked of sweat and lemon disinfectant and broken dreams._

" _I think that we can make a difference here." He motioned around them._

" _Yeah. I think so too." She'd shrugged. "Maybe?"_

" _No maybe. We can make a real difference." Danny's enthusiasm was contagious. "We can change the world, Charlie - you and me."_

 _She grinned at her brother, patting his shoulder. "Settle down, Tony Robbins. This is our first day."_

 _The kitchen was long and narrow. It was adjoined to a large dining hall filled with mismatched tables and rickety folding chairs. A scratched Formica counter ran along one wall. Volunteers stood behind it handing out fruit and cups of coffee, sandwiches and soup._

" _Where do you want us?" Danny had asked the harried woman who was manning the counter._

" _Grab a ladle and don't forget to smile." She'd said with a distracted nod toward the end of the table where big pots of soup were steaming fragrantly._

 _Charlie and Danny did as they were told, donning aprons and hair nets before settling in. They'd served almost twenty people when the little bald man had approached._

" _Hello, Sir." Danny had said politely, ignoring the threadbare suit and the dirty fingers._

 _The little man tried to smile. Clearly he didn't do it often. "You can call me Mr. Horn."_

 _Danny nodded. "Chili or Chicken noodle, Mr. Horn?"_

" _Chili, please."_

" _Here you go." Danny reached out with a ladle full of the aromatic soup and poured it into the bowl. As he did so, a tiny splash of chili left the bowl and hit the little man's tie. "I am so sorry!" Danny said. "Let me help."_

 _Mr. Horn sat his bowl down on the counter and with shaking fingers began to dab a napkin at the stain. "Ruined. Ruined. Ruined," he muttered, his face going red with anger._

" _Need any help?" Charlie mouthed to her brother._

" _No." Danny grinned at her. "I got this." He took a damp rag and walked around the table to where the little man was still muttering over his ruined tie._

 _An elderly woman with bright pink hair was asking for soup and Charlie's attention was with her when she heard a gasp. Glancing toward her brother, she saw the little man named Horn run away as a knife clattered to the floor. Curious, she looked at Danny. He slowly turned. "Charlie? I think this is bad." His eyes were unfocused and he began to sway._

" _Danny!" Charlie cried, seeing the blood soaking the front of his apron. She ran to his side, screaming for help._

 _Help came, but not soon enough._

Charlie shakes herself from the memory of her brother's death and narrows her eyes against the weather. She looks once more toward the entrance of the cemetery, searching for blond hair and designer clothes, but nobody is there. Charlie shakes her head with a frown. She's not surprised. Not really. Her mom had rarely paid them any attention before, no reason she'd start now.

Charlie pulls her jacket tight around her throat and leaves her brother's grave with her head down. She walks away without looking back.

Looking back has never served her well.

* * *

 **Prologue Part 2: Bass (one month ago)**

The hospital room looks like every other one in this particular VA hospital. Everything is colorless and indistinct. The patient sitting up in the bed looking blankly out a window doesn't care what the room looks like. He doesn't care that he hasn't shaved in a week or that his curls are sticking out at odd angles.

His face is drawn. His eyes are hollow. His bleak mood matches the colorless room. The only splash of color is a small bouquet of yellow carnations which the duty nurse was wise enough to put out of the patient's reach.

"He has rage issues," she comments harshly to the doctor reading a clipboard.

"He has grief issues," the doctor responds after reading the chart.

"You're both right," a blond man in US Marine fatigues agrees as he walks past them and into the room. "Hey, Monroe. How are you?"

Monroe doesn't answer the question posed by his concerned CO Jeremy Baker. He doesn't even notice that he has a visitor. His thoughts have taken him elsewhere, to another colorless place – this one in the heart of Afghanistan.

 _The dust had settled on a narrow village road where a shootout with the enemy had just ended. American soldiers were still on alert as they searched the area, but it seemed that the threat was contained._

 _US Marine Staff Sergeant Sebastian Monroe did a double take when he first noticed a familiar face heading his way. "Connor, is that you?" Bass couldn't hide the grin that spread across his face. "What are the fuckin odds? It's been what, six months?"_

" _Eight," Connor corrected his dad with a big smile of his own as the men embraced. "Didn't really want our next meeting to be due to my unit needing help, but it's good to see you."_

" _You too, Kid. Glad you're okay."_

" _Yeah me too. I think we would have been all right, but I'm glad you guys were close enough to come in and give us some support – " Connor stopped talking as a burst of gunshots marked the beginning of another attack. He and his father both dove for cover._

 _Muzzle flashes and the stuttering echo of automatic gunfire surrounded them. Bass and Connor and several other soldiers found cover behind debris and returned fire._

 _When a bullet slammed into Bass's thigh, he gritted his teeth and looked around frantically for something he could use as a tourniquet. He noticed an ancient bungee cord in a nearby pile of rubble and crawled to it. He made do as best he could to stem the bleeding before picking up his gun and joining the fight once more._

 _As the fight died down, Connor ducked and ran over to his dad. "You okay?"_

" _Got a hole in my leg, but it won't kill me. You?"_

" _I'm fine." Connor looked at his dad's injured leg, clearly worried._

" _Don't worry. The medic can fix me up." Bass nodded at his son, ignoring the burning pain in his leg. "Go."_

" _Yes, Sir." Connor turned his attention to his right and was just getting ready to run over to join his unit when a bullet tore through the back of his throat, blossoming in an explosion of red under his chin. Bass watched with shock and horror as his son fell lifeless at his feet._

 _Before dropping to cradle Connor's lifeless body, Bass looked up and saw a man holding the gun who had ended his child's life. The shooter was wearing a United States Army uniform and his expression showed only one emotion: relief._

"Bass? Hey Bass?" Jeremy shakes his friend's shoulder gently.

Bleary, red rimmed eyes slowly turn to the man sitting on Bass's bed. "What?"

"I brought the papers. Sign them and then you are free from Uncle Sam. You can go home and…" Jeremy trails off, suddenly at a complete loss as to what Monroe will do. He'd always planned to be a lifer, but early retirement had been strongly suggested after Connor's death. "Do whatever it is you want to do, I guess?"

Monroe nods absently and then looks out the window once more. "Did you ask around about that guy?"

"Yeah, I did. You were right. It was one of the men from Connor's unit who shot him. Name is Neville. Evidently they were friends. From what I hear the kid is really upset about it."

A sliver of life lights up Monroe's otherwise dull expression as he glances back at his CO. "The official ruling is friendly fire, then?"

"Yeah, the case is closed. I don't think the Army felt there was anything to investigate."

Bass flings the paperwork back at Baker. His eyes glow with rage. "That is bullshit, and you know it." He begins to pull as wires and tubes and flings his legs over the side of the bed with a hiss of pain.

Down the hall at the nurse's station, an alarm begins to beep urgently.

Jeremy's eyes are wide. "Where do you think you're going?'

"Anywhere but here."

* * *

 **Chapter 1 - Boston MA (The Present)**

Bass parks the faded blue Cutlass Ciera near a broken meter and turns off the ignition. He pulls a flask from a jacket pocket, not even trying to disguise it as anything other than what it is, and takes a drink.

He is exhausted and weary. His eyes are bloodshot. His stubble is now bordering on full-blown beard. His hair is shaggy with unruly curls poking out. His clothes came from a charity bin at the VA, and are all about four sizes too big, hanging loosely on his lean frame. He hasn't showered in days.

He does not care.

Through the dusty window of the old car, he watches a three story brick building almost a block away on a corner. It was a church long ago, but for decades it's been one of South Boston's busiest homeless shelters. This isn't Southie's oldest or most prestigious shelter, by any means. It doesn't get any of the mayor's pet funding. It's in a shitty neighborhood, and it isn't pretty, but it does a lot of business.

As Bass watches, he sees people wandering in and out. Most of them look as sad and downtrodden as he feels. He figures he'll fit right in.

He doesn't see her. Not yet. She's probably already inside, working. He opens the glove box and pulls out a wrinkled piece of paper. His eyesight is a tad blurry so he has to squint to read it.

When the call came, he'd been sitting in Connor's apartment, going through his son's things. The tears had dried by that point, but he'd been very drunk when the phone rang.

The caller's voice was familiar in a vague, ancient history sort of way. He remembers the bile that had risen when he finally figured out who was on the other end of the line. He'd almost hung up, but changed his mind when the voice promised him the one thing he wanted - answers. He'd listened, made a few notes and agreed to the caller's terms.

Bass squints down at the crumpled paper. He can barely make out his own handwriting.

 _Charlotte Matheson. Works at homeless Shelter on South Sylvania Rd, Boston. Shift usually starts at noon. Gets off at 8. Will prob fight back, but don't hurt her. Deadline = one week. 10998 Mitchell Drive, Los Angeles CA. Payment on delivery_

He runs a shaky hand along his jawline before stowing the paper back in the glove box and taking another heavy pull from his flask. Two months ago, he was a respected Marine Staff Sergeant, fighting for his country and living a simple but happy life. His free time had consisted of Skyping with his son, occasionally finding a woman for the night, reading the latest Stephen King novel or catching up on his Netflix queue. How times have changed. Now he's driving around in his son's old beater car, planning to commit a felony so that he can get the revenge he craves more than air.

Is he doing the right thing? No. Does he care? Also, no.

He stares blearily at the flask, turning it gently in his fingers so that he can see the other side. The initials CB are engraved there. He traces them with a calloused thumb. Seeing this reminder of his dead son gives him the mental push he needs to get started. Bass tucks the flask away and gets out of the car.

Shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his oversized hoodie, he limps toward the shelter. As he gets closer to the brick facade, he wishes for a moment that things were different, and that he had another choice. He doesn't. Not that it matters. It will all be over soon.

Charlotte Matheson will be his final mission.

Charlie hands a plump red apple to a little boy with shaggy brown hair and freckles. He is probably seven or eight. "What's your name?" She bends down, smiling at the boy.

He blushes and looks down at his dusty tennis shoes. "Logan." His voice is very quiet.

"Well, I'm glad you came in today, Logan. Do you have any pockets?"

The boy looks at her curiously, shyness forgotten, and nods.

Charlie hands him a second apple. "Here's an extra for later."

He beams at her as his dad leads him away.

Charlie looks up at the next person in line. It's Matilda. She's a regular and always has a sour expression on her face. "Do I get an extra apple too?" She sounds far too petulant for a woman pushing sixty, but Charlie doesn't point this out.

Instead, she smiles and hands the woman two apples. "Of course you do, Matilda. Some sweet fruit for a sweet lady."

Matilda growls something under her breath about disrespectful kids and moves on down the line. Charlie watches her walk away with a smile. Charlie loves working here. She loves helping these people, even if it's only for a moment and even if they don't always appreciate it.

"Excuse me. May I have an apple?" The voice is low and scratchy. It reminds Charlie of the sound an old car door makes when it hasn't been opened in a long time. She looks at the man who belongs to the voice and isn't surprised at all by what she sees.

She sees it in this line every day: pain and desperation.

The man is far too thin for the clothes he's wearing. It's possible that he's recently been sick. His cheeks are hollow and he's very pale. He is unshaven and smells like stale sweat and spilled whiskey. He holds out an empty tray.

She sets an apple on it. "Would you like some soup? Maybe a sandwich?" She tries to catch his gaze but he's looking down at the tray.

"Just the apple is fine."

"All right then." She nods, but something about this man calls to her. This is the kind of man she and Danny always hoped to help. He is the kind of person who needs it the most. Charlie puts her hand on his wrist and his eyes jerk up to meet hers. They are a startling blue and filled with immeasurable pain. "Um, there's coffee at the end of the counter. Also water and juice."

"Thank you," he says and limps away without taking any of the offered drinks. He sits by himself in a corner table that faces the door. Between bites of apple, he takes sips from a flask tucked in his pocket.

Charlie watches the man for a moment, but soon she is once again caught up in the seemingly endless line of hungry Bostonians. She hands out apples and oranges and peanut butter sandwiches, and she chats with the people as they make their way through the line.

Her feet are tired and her back aches, but Charlie's smile is genuine as she does the thing she loves most - helping others.

When she thinks to look toward the corner again, the sad-eyed man is gone.

Bass slouches down in the driver's seat of the Cutlass, watching the shelter's front door under the glow of a flickering street light in the distance.

He's waiting. It's almost eight o'clock.

The empty flask lies discarded in the passenger seat. He's drinking vodka now. It's not particularly good vodka, but Bass doesn't believe in wasting anything and he'd found it in Connor's apartment.

Other than a few random bottles of booze, there hadn't been much there worth saving. Connor hadn't been home in months, and it wasn't much of a home to begin with. Bass had found a bookcase full of compact discs. He'd dumped the discs into a big Rubbermaid tote and put it in the backseat of Connor's car along with a box of letters and photos. He'd called a local Salvation Army to come and collect the rest.

Bass screws the lid back on the vodka bottle when he sees Charlie emerge from the shelter. She's talking to an African-American woman who appears to be a fellow volunteer. They say goodbye at the foot of the stairs, and Bass tenses slightly, his hand on the door latch.

Charlie should be heading his way any minute. He knows that to get to her apartment, she will need to walk right by where he's parked the car. But instead of heading his way immediately, she walks to the bus stop on the corner and talks to an older woman who has a big shopping cart. It is piled high with various items.

Bass watches as Charlie gives the woman an apple and a sweater that she has pulled from her backpack. Then she helps the little old lady put the sweater on before pausing at the curb to wait for traffic to clear.

Bass is on edge, watching as Charlie crosses the street. He pulls the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head and gets out of the car. He makes his way into the shadows next to a boarded up hardware store and waits. His plan is simple. When she walks between him and the car, he'll make his move.

As she approaches, he walks out of the shadows, holding out a cup. "Spare some change?"

She hesitates, but only for a moment. Digging in her backpack, she's looking down when he pounces. Even with a bum leg, he is far bigger and stronger than Charlie, and he has the element of surprise in his favor. Charlie doesn't realize what is happening until he's flipped her over his shoulder and begun to carry her to the car.

She kicks and yells, but Bass moves quickly. The trunk pops open, and he unceremoniously dumps her inside. Charlie's survival instinct shifts into high gear, and she launches a kick in his direction. Catching Bass in the jaw with her boot, she sits up and tries to climb out of the trunk as he staggers back.

Bass reels from the kick, berating himself for not believing the caller who had said she might fight back. She kicks again, and this time she gets him in the ear.

"Little fucking bitch!" he hisses, pushing her back down. She bites his forearm, hard enough to break the skin, and Bass backhands her with a loud thwack. Charlie's mouth is bloody and her eyes are hot with fear and rage. Again, she scrambles to get out of the trunk and he pushes her back, but not before she gets another solid kick in. This one hits Bass square in the injured part of his thigh, and he sees stars as a surge of pain rushes through his body.

He's done. Pulling a gun from his waistband, he points it at her head with a shaky hand. She stills, breathing heavily. He can tell she's assessing her odds. He shakes his head with a little jerk, and when he speaks, his voice is rough. "I'm not supposed to kill you, but I am not in the mood for bullshit."

She opens her mouth to speak or scream - Bass can't tell and he doesn't care. He releases the safety, pressing the muzzle of the gun against her temple to show he's serious. Charlie sees the mix of pain and anger in his expression and she clamps her lips shut.

"Give me your phone. Your bag."

She shakes her head.

"Just give it to me!" Spittle collects in the corners of his mouth and Charlie feels the cold grip of raw fear. She is screwed. Charlie reaches into her back pocket and pulls out her phone. She hands it and her backpack over.

"Now lie down."

Charlie does as she's told even though what she really wants to do is kick him in the head again. "You'll never get away with this," she snarls.

Bass shrugs, his gaze cold and vacant. "We'll see."

The trunk falls closed, and she is thrust into utter darkness.

* * *

 **A/N This is a bday fic for Romeo, who is a good friend, a really kick ass writer and a joy to work with as well. She asked for something angsty that channeled Season 1 Bass, and in which Bass kidnaps Charlie. She's left the rest up to me...so we'll see if this works. :) Because I'm me, there will be a happy ending, and before you say how can Charlie possibly fall for the guy who just pointed a gun at her head? Well, trust me. This one is all plotted out and will run ten chapters. My goal is to post one chap a week.**

 **Happy Birthday Romeo! Hope it's all you hoped for and more. I have heard a lot of rumblings from our Revo community, and I have a feeling you will be showered with all sorts of fic. I hope you love every bit of it. Have a wonderful birthday - you deserve it.**

 **A special thank you to TexasRevoFan for reviewing and giving me some excellent feedback and encouragement.**

 **If you have a moment, please leave a comment. I do love to hear what you think.**


	2. Chapter 2: Boston to Pittsburgh

**From Boston to Pittsburgh (approximately 580 miles on the road)**

 _Don't worry. The medic can fix me up. Go!"_ Bass's final words to his son ring in his brain like a blaring alarm clock without a snooze button. He would give anything to go back and say, "Proud of you, kid" or "Love you, Connor."

But no.

" _Don't worry. The medic can fix me up. Go!"_

The words twist and echo in his tired brain, changing with each repeat.

" _Don't worry. Go!"_

" _Don't go!"_

"Don't go!" he says aloud, his voice cracking. Bass chokes back a sob, running a shaky hand through his hair while the other grasps the steering wheel of his dead son's Cutlass Ciera. His eyes are wet with tears and drooping with exhaustion. His leg throbs in spite of the Vicodin he'd washed down with the last of the vodka.

His headlights do little to illuminate the darkened road. Everything is a blur, and the buildings he passes are nothing but flashes of dull color. Bass runs a red light and doesn't even notice the screeching brakes and honking horns as they fade in his wake.

Maybe it's the Vicodin-vodka cocktail. Maybe it's sheer exhaustion mixed with grief. Maybe it's some combination of all these things. Bass doesn't know, but whatever the source is, when the illusion of Connor sitting in the passenger seat appears, Bass smiles crookedly. "Hey, You."

"Hey," Connor says. His nose scrunches up in distaste. "You smell like shit."

Bass bites his lip, tears coursing down his cheeks. "I've been busy. I –" He isn't sure what to say.

"You've been busy drinking too much and feeling sorry for yourself and kidnapping an innocent girl." There is judgment in Connor's voice and Bass can't meet his eyes.

"No. Wasn't like that. Not going to hurt her. Going to get answers for you."

"But I don't want any answers. I just want you to get better. I want you to take care of yourself."

"It's too late…" Bass protests. There's no response.

Bass looks over, and he scowls at the empty seat. The mirage of Connor has faded away.

It really is too late.

He knows Connor wasn't really here. If he needed a reminder, he would only need to look as far as the glove box where a Ziploc bag holds Connor's ashes. Bass lets out a ragged sigh, reflecting on what Imaginary Connor had said. Bass hasn't lost it completely. Not yet. He knows that Connor's words are actually coming from his own deep-seated worry that things have gone irretrievably wrong.

His thoughts go to the woman in the trunk.

Shit. For a minute he'd forgotten about her, but now the abduction is at the forefront of his mind once again. It could have gone smoother, for sure. Bass grits his teeth as a sharp pain shoots from his thigh to his spine. She really did a number on his leg. He tries to shift his position, but nothing much helps. He tenderly touches his damaged thigh and hisses with pain. The denim over his wound is soaked in blood. He's going to have to patch that up soon.

He's in a bad spot, and he knows it. The only way this plan works is if he can make it all the way to Cali with the girl in tow. He should have known better. He'd been warned that she might fight him. And he knows Mathesons well enough that he should have heeded the warning about the girl.

The girl.

Charlotte, he corrects himself. She's a feisty thing. Tough as nails. A hellcat. Bass hits a pothole and realizes for the first time that she's probably pretty damn miserable back there. He needs to get her out of the trunk. Hellcat or not, she is also valuable merchandise.

He'll have to put her in the back seat, maybe, but there are about a million ways that can go wrong.

Shit.

He needs to think, but his brain is fogged by the Vicodin, the vodka, the memory of his dead son's ghost, and more than twenty-four hours without sleep.

He spots a sign listing the distances to coming towns and has an idea when he recognizes one. He digs in his rear pocket and fishes out a cell phone. He scrolls through his contacts, not paying attention to the fact that he's swerving into oncoming traffic until he sees headlights and hears the blare of a horn.

"Fuck!" He jerks back into his lane just as he finds the name he's looking for. Will Strausser. He hits the call button and waits as the phone begins to ring.

"Monroe, is that you?"

"Yeah."

"Hey, heard about your kid. I'm real sorry."

"Uh, thanks. Need your help."

"Anything, brother. You know that."

"You still live west of Boston?"

"Yeah, I still have a house in Three Rivers. Why?"

"Can I crash with you tonight? I'm in the area. Need a place."

"Well, I'm not there. I'm in New York a lot these days. If I ever go home, it's just on the weekends."

"Shit."

"Hey, it's okay. Mi casa es su casa. You crash there as long as you need to. Key's under the naked lady statue by the back door. Just lock back up when you leave."

Bass rubs his temples. Of course Will has a naked lady statue by his back door. "Okay. Thanks. Hey, Strausser?"

"Yeah?"

"You have any duct tape or rope at your place?"

"Sure. It's in the garage in a cabinet by the tool bench."

"Good. Mind if I use some? Probably could use a first aid kit too."

There is a silence as Bass waits for his old buddy to answer. "What's going on, Monroe? You sound weird as fuck. Are you drunk?"

"It's just that, uh, I have a girl with me. She's – "

Will laughs. "Into some kinky shit, huh? Say no more, but hey, if kinky is what you want, forget the garage. Go in my room. There's a black box under my bed. Oh, and there are Band-Aids and stuff like that in the medicine cabinet. Use whatever you want."

"Thanks, Will. Appreciate it."

"It's been too long. We got to catch up sometime."

"Yeah. Sure." If Will catches the lack of emotion in Monroe's voice, he chooses to ignore it. The two old friends ring off after Strausser gives him directions, and Bass pulls off on the shoulder.

He opens the glove box, pulling a map out from underneath the clear bag filled with bone and ash. He turns on the dome light and squints at the map as he figures out the best route to Three Rivers.

* * *

Charlie feels rage, helplessness, and fear coursing through her veins. How long has she been in this car trunk? An hour? Several hours? She's not sure anymore because the darkness is playing tricks on her brain.

To make matters worse, her leg has fallen asleep, her neck is throbbing, and a jumper cable is digging into her hip. She wants to kill the asshole who threw her in here, and has mentally gone through fifty different ways to do it, although she's ill-equipped to follow through on even one.

The cramped darkness reeks of motor oil and sweat socks. She supposes she should be thankful that she's not sucking exhaust, but the combination of rank odors and full dark are making her feel even more claustrophobic.

She's felt her way through the contents of the trunk, finding nothing potentially useful except for a broken ice scraper. It has a nice sharp point and she figures it is as close as she'll get to a weapon back there.

Her mind swirls with thoughts of her attacker. He's insane for sure, although she had not thought so at first. She had felt sorry for him when he'd been in the shelter. She'd wanted to help him.

Stupid. Clearly the guy is beyond help.

"Fucking psycho," she mutters.

She wonders what he expects to gain from kidnapping her. Hopefully it's just about money, and he isn't planning to take her someplace more secluded and… No, surely it's about money, she tells herself. Charlie frowns into the darkness, imagining her mother's response to that kind of demand. Good luck, asshole. Rachel Matheson probably won't even take your call.

The car bumps along, jostling her back and forth till her bones ache. She clutches the ice scraper in her hands and prays that she'll be ready for whatever comes next.

* * *

Bass feels like a zombie by the time he drives past the sign welcoming him to the village of Three Rivers, Massachusetts. Soon he is pulling into the drive of a small brick house with an attached garage. He parks and stiffly walks around to the back of the house. The naked lady statue is sitting right next to the door, and when Bass tilts it sideways, he finds the promised key underneath.

Letting himself inside through the back door, Bass limps through the kitchen and opens the door that leads into the garage. He hits the button for the big rolling door and then drives the car inside the tidy space. He turns off the ignition, shuts the garage door and opens the cabinet by the tool bench. He takes a roll of duct tape and some thin nylon rope and heads back inside the house. He needs a few more things before he can let the hellcat out of the trunk.

This time, he's going to be ready when she fights back.

* * *

Charlie is on full alert when the engine noise fades to silence. She hears the car door slam and she's ready with the ice scraper gripped tightly in her hands. She relaxes her grip when nothing happens. The engine starts up again and once again stops.

What the hell is he doing?

The waiting feels endless. Charlie is starting to give up on the lid ever actually opening when without warning, it pops up. The light from an overhead fixture is blinding but it is the bucket of ice water that he throws in her face which makes her drop the ice scraper. She sputters helplessly.

He merely grunts, picking up her make-do weapon and tossing it aside before roughly wrapping her wrists with duct tape.

She gasps and tries to scream but is barely able to make a sound before her kidnapper shoves a rag between her teeth, gagging her. "Shut up!" His voice is rough.

Charlie kicks at him, but he dodges her attempt, putting his weight on her thighs. The angle is unnatural, and her eyes go wide with pain. He tapes her ankles and then lifts her and throws her over his shoulder like she's a rag doll.

She can tell his gait is slower than it had been when he'd first taken her. His breathing is more labored, but his grip is still iron tight. Her brain tells her that struggling is futile. She tries anyway, thrashing and trying to yell through the gag, but he doesn't even seem to notice.

He takes her into a house. Charlie looks around wildly, straining to see as much as she can. She is surprised to find nothing out of the ordinary – it's just a house.

He unceremoniously drops her on her ass in the center of a great room that opens onto a neat and tidy kitchen. The air whooshes out of her lungs, giving him the time he needs to immobilize her further by tying her to a support pole with a thin rope.

He doesn't speak or meet her eyes.

She pulls at her bindings, but quickly decides there's no point. She's not going anywhere anytime soon.

Charlie watches her attacker as cold water drips from her hair and down her face. He looks exhausted. His skin is pale, and his eyes are bloodshot. He is dirty and he stinks. His leg is bloody from the thigh down.

He's watching her with cold eyes. "Thirsty?" His voice is gruff.

She nods.

"I'll take out the rag, but if you scream I'm putting it back in." He walks closer, an open Gatorade clutched tight in his dirty fingers.

She nods again. Who knows if anyone would hear her, anyway?

He pulls the rag from her mouth and holds the bottle to her lips. She drinks greedily until the bottle is half empty. Charlie takes a deep breath. "What do you want with me?"

He ignores her question, asking one of his own. "Need to pee?"

"No."

"Food?"

"No." Charlie lifts her chin stubbornly.

"Whatever. I don't give a shit." He starts to walk away, his limp pronounced.

"You're bleeding a lot."

He doesn't look her way. Instead, he opens and shuts drawers, looking for something.

"Did I do that? Make your leg bleed?"

He doesn't turn. "No." He keeps banging around the kitchen, stopping only when he finds what appears to be a junk drawer. He digs through the contents until he retrieves a small box and slams the drawer shut.

"What's that?" she asks.

He ignores her until he's almost out of the room. Glancing back, he says, "Nobody will hear you if you scream, but you will piss me off. Shut your mouth, or I'll just gag you again."

She doesn't say anything as he disappears down a hallway.

* * *

Bass closes the bathroom door and leans against it, breathing heavily. His leg is throbbing and his head feels as if it's splitting in two. He tosses the sewing kit from Will's kitchen into the sink and unsnaps his jeans, easing them over his hips. He almost loses consciousness when the sticky denim pulls away from the wound in his thigh. Gripping the countertop, he waits for his vision to clear before continuing. With his jeans pooled around his ankles, Bass sits on the lid of the toilet and takes a look at his leg. He curses himself for not taking better care of his injury. Under normal circumstances, he'd be well on his way to a full recovery by now, but the circumstances have been far from normal. He pokes gingerly at the bloody meat of his thigh. Several of the stitches have pulled out and the flesh is angry and swollen under the oozing blood.

This is bad.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He has to fix this. If he dies from infection, he'll never get the justice he wants. He can't avenge Connor if he's dead.

He can't die until after he has avenged Connor, he corrects himself.

Bass strips the rest of his clothes off and steps carefully into the shower. He washes his hair and body quickly, slowing only when he cleans the injured flesh on his leg. When he's done, he gets out and dries off. He douses the wound with rubbing alcohol from Will's medicine cabinet, hissing with pain as the liquid saturates the open wound. Bass is light headed again, and sits heavily on the toilet lid. After a couple minutes, he reaches for the sewing kit and takes a threaded needle, dipping it in the alcohol. He grits his teeth before quickly sewing up the gash in his thigh. When he's finished with the uneven stitches, he slathers them with antibiotic ointment. He does the same with the large bite mark on his arm.

Standing on shaky legs, he reaches for his clothes, but now that he's clean, the stench is more than he can take. Imaginary Connor's voice echoes in his head, and he throws the clothes in the trash can under the sink.

Bass limps, naked, into Will's bedroom and opens drawers until he finds boxers and a tee shirt, throwing both on the bed. He rips the tee shirt into strips and wraps his thigh with them. Gingerly, he pulls the boxers on over the makeshift bandage. Will's jeans are all far too big around the waist, but Bass finds some old sweats that will work. They are comfortable enough and the elastic waist means they won't fall off. He yanks a hoodie on over his head and then slumps onto the edge of the bed, drained.

Bass is tempted to lie down and sleep, but the girl is still sitting out there, and he at least needs to check on her before he passes out.

He remembers Strausser's words and reaches underneath the bed, finding the black box right where Will had said it would be.

* * *

Charlie isn't even trying to free herself anymore. The ropes are tight around her chest and the duct tape is biting into her wrists and ankles. Instead, she takes in her surroundings. This is clearly a guy's place, but she doesn't think it belongs to Psycho. Someone in their own house wouldn't have to dig through every drawer to find something like he had done. No. This isn't his place, but whose is it? And where is the person who lives here?

She can make out some photos on a fireplace mantle. Several feature a guy with gray hair and a goatee. In some of them, he's wearing a military uniform. A Marine, she thinks, but from this distance it's hard to say for sure. Maybe her guy was once a soldier as well. Maybe he's suffering PTSD. Maybe he has shrapnel in that leg. Maybe the guy who lives here is tied up in another room, or dead.

Charlie shudders. The maybes are endless. Mentally exhausted, she leans her head back against the pillar and closes her eyes.

They pop open when she hears him coming back into the room. He's dragging his bum leg just a bit, the limp now far more pronounced than it had been before. She notices the change in his walk, but it is just one of the things she notices.

The other changes in her abductor are more obvious. First of all, he's clean. The bloody clothes have been replaced by gray sweatpants and a huge Boston Red Sox hoodie. Evidently he doesn't believe in clothing that fits. His hair and beard are still wild, but he smells like soap instead of sweat and despair.

In his hands, he holds a wide black box.

"What's that?" she asks.

He doesn't acknowledge that she has spoken. His eyes are sunken and his skin is deathly pale. Even though he's cleaned up, he somehow looks worse, not better.

"Are you okay?" The words come out before she even thinks about the fact that she should not be worrying about the guy who held a gun to her head earlier.

"Just need to sleep." He doesn't meet her gaze as he walks to the counter and sets the large black box on top of it. He lifts the lid and begins to remove things from the box one at a time.

She watches curiously at first, but her curiosity swiftly evolves into dread. The black box is filled with a wide variety of sex toys. He pulls things from the box, seemingly looking for something in particular as he sets aside dildos of all sizes, nipple clamps, a whip, blindfolds, a strap on, anal beads…

Charlie's eyes go wide as he removes item after item, setting each one on the counter. "What the hell are you gonna do with that?"

Bass ignores her, inspecting a fat butt plug attached to what looks like a raccoon tail. "Jesus," he mutters, shaking his head wearily.

Charlie is growing frantic. "If you touch me with any of that crazy shit, I will kill you!"

He doesn't look her way. "Don't flatter yourself. You're not my type."

She feels relieved but also strangely offended, although she can't say why his not wanting her like that should be a problem. She huffs out a breath of air and mumbles quietly to herself.

"What?" He asks without turning.

"I said you're a psycho and that your type is probably someone of the inflatable variety." Charlie clamps her mouth shut, realizing that taunting this asshole is probably not in her best interests.

Stupid Matheson temper.

He looks at her now, with narrowed eyes. "You talk too much." He bounces a ball gag in his hand and seems to be considering it as he watches her.

"Don't you dare." She fumes. "I promise if you stick anything near my face, I will bite it off. Do you hear me?"

He closes his eyes. "Yes I hear you. I can't stop hearing you. Don't you ever shut up?"

Charlie's mouth twists into a scornful smirk. "Sorry. Never been kidnapped before. I don't know all the rules yet."

His back is to her again, but he evidently has found what he's looking for because he stops digging. She watches as he turns and slowly approaches, something silver hanging from his fingers. She tries to scoot away but can't move.

"Calm down. Gonna untie you so you can pee then I'm going to tie you back up."

"That's nice of you." Her tone is mocking.

"Whatever. Piss your pants."

Charlie scowls, but shakes her head. "No. Sorry. I'll be good."

He unties her feet first and then starts in on the rope. As it uncoils, she starts to feel sensation returning to her extremities. She stretches her feet out with a relieved sigh. Her hands are still bound.

He watches the way she stretches her legs. His eyes narrow. "Don't try to run."

She stands awkwardly. Both of her feet have fallen asleep and she is unsteady. "Can't run. Can barely walk." Charlie glares at him. "Asshole."

He doesn't offer to help, but points her to the hallway. "Bathroom is straight ahead."

She hobbles down the hall and turns into the small bathroom. "Untie my hands?"

"No." He walks toward her and she jerks back, away from his touch. "I'm not untying your hands. Do you have to pee or not?"

Charlie's cheeks flame red but she nods. He steps forward and unsnaps her jeans. He jerks the zipper down and pulls her jeans and panties to her knees. She's not sure he could look less interested if he tried.

She sits down and looks up to see that he is leaning against the doorframe, watching her.

She scowls. "Do you mind?"

"Don't even care, but I don't trust you." His eyes are heavy with exhaustion.

Even though the situation is humiliating, Charlie pees with her captor watching. "You don't trust ME? That's rich."

He holds out his arm. Teeth marks are visible when he pulls up his sleeve.

She shrugs. "Why did you take me?" she asks, changing the subject.

He won't answer.

"Are you going to hurt me?"

He remains silent.

"Are you going to rape me?" She asks, suddenly unsure. Obviously he's unhinged, but she hopes he's not that kind of crazy. She doesn't think he is, but after the day she's had, she no longer has faith in her own judgement of character.

He shakes his head with a scowl. "No. Now shut up."

She feels relief surge through her body. He could be lying, but she doesn't think so.

He helps her stand and yanks her pants back up. When they get back to where they had started, he slices through the duct tape around her wrists with a knife. Before she can do anything with her newly freed hands, he pulls handcuffs from a back pocket and snaps them in place. Once again, she's fastened to the pole, but the new restraint is far more comfortable. The insides of the cuffs almost feel –

"What the hell?" she asks. "Are these fur lined?"

Bass shakes his head with a sigh. "It's all he had."

She ponders for a moment. "Who's he? What the hell kind of pervert lives here?"

He ignores her, heading into the kitchen.

"You're a shitty kidnapper, you know that, right? Didn't have your own supplies. Took me in a place where people might see. You are clearly injured and mentally unstable…"

"Shut. Up." Bass grits his teeth and rubs at his temples.

She closes her mouth, watching him.

* * *

Bass searches through the cupboards and comes up with a box of Cap'n Crunch and a bottle of red wine. There's no milk, so he eats the cereal straight from the box, staring into space. Now and then, he takes a pull from the bottle. The cereal is stale, but the familiar box takes Bass back in time. His gaze loses focus and his mind swirls with memories from when Connor was in high school.

" _You should eat some yogurt or an egg or something." Bass had admonished his son._

 _Connor had grinned at his dad. "Cap'n Crunch is the breakfast of champions."_

" _It's nothing but sugar."_

 _Connor shrugged. "Well, it's just sugar. It won't kill me."_

No, Bass thinks. It will be a bullet through your spine that almost blows your head off that kills you.

" _Don't worry. The medic can fix me up. Go!"_

" _Don't worry. Go!"_

" _Don't go!"_

He feels the rage and panic rising, and he closes his eyes. The darkness behind his eyelids brings the memories of Connor's final moments into focus again, and he hurls the box of cereal against the far wall.

"Don't go!" His voice is a scratchy whisper. His chest heaves with pent up sobs. He opens his eyes slowly.

* * *

As the little kernels fly around the room and settle to the floor, Charlie sits perfectly still. She watches the psycho carefully, evaluating him. His fingers grip the tabletop until the knuckles are white. He stares into space, seemingly unaware that tears are pouring down his cheeks. His vacant eyes are looking at a scene she can't see.

And in this moment, Charlie thinks that she understands, at least a little. This guy may or may not be bat shit crazy – the jury is still out on that, but she sees something else now. Something familiar. Her abductor is experiencing the kind of grief that only the death of a loved one could ever cause.

She understands because it wasn't so long ago that she was in a similar position. After the shock of Danny's death had faded, she had been haunted by memories and broken dreams. She had lashed out and been cruel to those around her. She hadn't committed any felonies, but she'd been on the edge.

She figures someone on the edge can just as easily topple over into the darkness as they can the light.

Charlie waits, watching as he takes deep breaths, attempting to steady himself. Slowly, he calms.

When Charlie speaks, her voice is very quiet. "Who was it? Who died?"

He looks at her with surprise, and she sees that he had forgotten all about her. He closes his eyes and shakes his head. "Please just shut up." His voice is a plea laced with pain.

"I'm sorry. I just want to go home."

He sags against the counter, his head down. "Can't."

"Where are you going to take me?"

No answer.

"What happened to your leg?"

No answer.

"Whose house is this?"

Once again, he doesn't answer. Instead, he takes a long drink from the bottle of wine, eying her warily.

Charlie is beyond frustrated. His habit of not answering her questions is wearing thin. "You drink too fucking much."

"You talk too fucking much."

She decides to change tactics. "I'm thirsty."

He nods, walking over to the cabinet where the Gatorade bottle sits. He takes his time unscrewing the lid and fiddling with some dishes on the counter before bringing it over. He holds it to her lips as she drinks the rest of the contents.

"I'm serious about the drinking. If you're planning to drive me anywhere, maybe slow down with the alcohol. I need to be alive when this is all over so that I can identify you in a line up."

He laughs but there is no mirth in it. "I told you to shut up. Don't you ever listen?" He shoves the rag back in her mouth and lies down in a recliner on the other side of the room, promptly going to sleep.

Charlie decides she'll stay awake. He's snoring loudly in moments and she wonders if she might be able to get free of the cuffs. She begins to struggle against her restraints and then everything fades to black.

* * *

Charlie wakes up to bright morning light and muted traffic sounds. She's in the same car as before or at least she thinks so. This time she's in the back seat and not the trunk, and for this she's grateful. Her hands are bound behind her back with the cuffs, and her feet are tied together. She's anchored to the framework under the seat with metal shackles and this position doesn't allow her to sit up.

Her brain feels mushy. How the hell did she get here? Craning her neck, she can see Psycho driving. "Did you fucking drug me?"

He doesn't answer.

"What did you give me?"

More silence.

"That Gatorade... You did something to it. Oh my god. Did you…did you roofie me?" Charlie is indignant.

"Yes," Bass finally growls. "I did, and if you don't shut the fuck up, I'm going to do it again."

She clamps her mouth shut. They've gone maybe a mile when she breaks the silence. "Where are we?"

Once again, he doesn't answer.

Without warning, Charlie starts to feel sick to her stomach. "I don't feel so good."

"You're fine."

She shakes her head. "Gonna get sick."

He obviously assumes she's playing a game. He shakes his head without answering.

Charlie tries to hold back, but it is impossible. She pukes into the floorboard. Tiny chunks of apple and runny pink viscous liquid spurts from her mouth to the floor.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me!" He growls from the front seat, yanking the car to the shoulder of the road.

She retches several more times as sweat beads on her brow. The car reeks of vomit. Weakened, she rests her head on the seat, breathing in and out carefully, hoping the worst of it is over with.

She hears him open his car door and come around to her side. He jerks open her door and curses when he sees that she definitely hadn't been kidding.

"I get car sick sometimes if I haven't eaten."

He starts to mumble and curse under his breath. She watches as he leans inside the car, a big knife gripped tightly in his fist.

"I'm sorry!" She cries out, jerking back from him. "I didn't do it on purpose."

"I know that." He dips down and begins to saw through the carpet in the floorboard. As soon as he can, he pulls out the offending chunk of puke covered shag and tosses it into the ditch.

"You shouldn't litter," Charlie says.

He glares at her. "I shouldn't cut out your tongue either, but it's so fucking tempting."

Charlie doesn't say anything more, watching him carefully as he pulls a pair of keys from his pocket and unlocks the shackles that have secured her to the backseat. "Sit up."

He quickly unlocks the cuffs, moving her hands to her front and relocking them in place. He also moves the shackles so that they are now attached to the top of the seat instead of the bottom. She can stretch her arms out some now, and she can sit up. These changes make her feel better in mere moments.

He goes back to the front and digs around in a duffel bag before making his way back to her again. "Eat." He pushes a crumpled granola bar into her hand. Charlie's first instinct is to reject it, but she's so hungry that she unwraps it quickly and takes a bite.

He gets back in the driver's seat and pulls the Cutlass back onto the road. It's a narrow country highway surrounded by fields and trees.

"Where are we?" she asks around a mouthful of granola.

He just grunts.

"Where are we going?"

He doesn't answer. Charlie sighs and leans back against the seat watching the scenery that whizzes by. After a while she gets bored with the trees and grass and looks around the interior of the car instead. A green Rubbermaid tote sits on the floorboard opposite the side where she'd thrown up. "What's in there?" she asks, not expecting an answer.

"CDs."

She looks up in surprise. "Music?"

"Yeah."

"Are we going to listen to any of them?" She nods toward the car radio which clearly has a disk drive.

"No."

"Why not?"

He takes a deep breath. He lets it out slowly. "Will you shut up if we listen to music?"

She thinks about this for a moment. "Yeah. I will."

"Fine. We'll listen to every CD in there on the way if it means you'll keep your mouth shut."

She leans over as far as she can and pops the lid off the tote. At a glance she can tell the contents are varied. Many different music styles are represented in the top layer alone. "What do you want to start with?"

He doesn't answer, so she grabs Bruce Springsteen's _The River_ which is lying within easy reach. She hands it up, and without even looking at the title, he pops open the jewel case and puts in the cd.

Charlie closes her eyes, listening to the beginning of the first track _The Ties That Bind_. It reminds Charlie of her dad and she swallows a lump that rises in her throat. Her dad was the one who had first introduced her to the Boss, and _The River_ is one of Charlie's favorite albums. Softly, she sings along to the familiar lyrics:

"You been hurt and you're all cried out you say

You walk down the street pushin' people outta your way

You packed your bags and all alone you wanna ride,

You don't want nothin', don't need no one by your side

You're walkin' tough baby, but you're walkin' blind

to the ties that bind

The ties that bind

Now you can't break the ties that bind…"

She opens her eyes and sees him watching her in the rear view mirror. Raw pain shines from his ice blue eyes. His jaw is set in a grim line.

Charlie sighs. "Sorry. I'll shut up."

He looks away, saying nothing.

"Do you have anything to drink? Like a bottle of water or something?"

He hands her a half full bottle of lukewarm Pepsi. "It's this or whiskey."

"The Pepsi is fine." Charlie watches him as she drinks. This man is unknown to her, and yet there is something about him that feels familiar. She wonders if she's met him before. She tries to imagine him without the beard, but can't. Maybe today wasn't his first visit to the shelter.

She's just not sure.

There is some distant memory tickling the back of her mind. She closes her eyes and is overwhelmed by a blurry unfocused scene….a wedding from long ago with a beautiful bride in a big white dress, arms wrapped around her grinning groom. She remembers a tall cake and lots of flowers and women dressed in long gauzy gowns of blue. Charlie can see her own dress in party pink and white mary-jane shoes on her feet. She remembers a little boy her age with curly black hair and a mischievous smile who had chased her through the reception tables….

But is it a real memory or something her tired mind has created?

She doesn't know.

She tries to capture the image again, but it flutters out of reach once more.

Charlie leans back in her seat, taking another drink from the flat Pepsi. She is exhausted and her brain hurts. Later she'll try to recapture that fleeting memory. She has a feeling it holds answers - maybe the answers she needs most.

* * *

 **A/N A huge thank you to all who are giving this story a chance. It's different than my usual stuff, but I hope that you will enjoy it anyway. Thanks for the comments and kudos.**

 **Also I want to say another thank you to TexasRevoFan and Romeo who both gave this chapter a preview and offered wonderful feedback. All was greatly appreciated.**

 **If you see any errors in this chapter, blame only me. These gals gave awesome input.**

 **Leave a comment if you have a moment.**


	3. Chapter 3: Pittsburgh to Jasper

**Pittsburgh to Jasper (751 miles, 12 hours drive time)**

They'd left Pittsburgh as soon as Bass had been able to drag his aching body out of bed. He is sore and exhausted, having only fallen asleep at dawn. Now the sun is high in the sky, and the two lane highway he's driving down is sparsely traveled.

He takes a drink from his flask and glances in the rear view mirror. Charlotte had drifted off a half hour ago. Her head lolls to the side; her breathing is steady. He envies her ability to fall asleep so easily – to fall asleep at all. Even when he sleeps, his dreams are dark and bloody.

Images of blood and death and anguish swirl in his brain. He takes another drink, staring at the winding road ahead.

* * *

The wail of a passing siren jerks Charlie awake. She is immediately aware of her surroundings – the old car's back seat, the shackles keeping her in place, her quiet captor staring forward. He doesn't even seem to have noticed the police cruiser they'd met on the road, but Charlie is curious.

"What's going on?" She asks over the sounds of Creedence on the car stereo.

He shrugs, taking a sip from his flask.

She shakes her head in frustration. "Seriously, you need to ease up on the booze. I'm not in a big hurry to die in this shitty car."

He glances at her in the rear view mirror. His eyes are bloodshot but he holds her gaze as he silently takes another drink.

She settles back against the seat and crosses her arms. Her eyes shift to the passing scenery once again. The country they are winding through is pretty, with large tree-covered hills all around. She spots the occasional lane that probably leads to a house, but actual signs of civilization have been scarce.

Another police car screams past and Charlie leans forward once more. "Do you think they're looking for me?" She can't help but feel a jolt of hope as a third police car flies by with sirens blazing.

He doesn't answer with words, but he tucks his flask into his duffel before reaching for the car stereo. He switches off the CD player and finds the FM band on the radio.

"Hey! I was listening to that," she protests.

"Later," he grunts as he runs up and down the dial, finally stopping at a local news station where a news bulletin is already in progress.

… **CONSIDERED ARMED AND DANGEROUS. IF YOU SEE THE FUGITIVE, DO NOT APPROACH HIM. CALL 911 IMMEDIATELY AND LOCAL LAW ENFORCEMENT OFFICERS WILL BE ON THE SCENE AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. TO RECAP, A PRISONER NAMED TITUS ANDOVER HAS ESCAPED FROM THE BEAVER COUNTY JAIL WHERE HE WAS BEING HELD UNTIL HE COULD BE TRANSPORTED TO THE STATE CORRECTIONAL FACILITY IN ALBION…**

"Jig's up Titus. Better just turn yourself in." Charlie smirks at her kidnapper.

… **ANDOVER WAS SENTENCED TO TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AFTER BEING FOUND GUILTY OF KIDNAPPING FOUR YOUNG BOYS, CHILD MOLESTATION AND AGGRAVATED ASSAULT, AMONG OTHER LESSER CHARGES...**

"That's disgusting." Charlie spits out. "Little boys? You fucking perv. No wonder you said I'm not your type."

He shakes his head. "Name isn't Titus."

"Did you know him? Did you guys escape together?

He shakes his head again. "Don't know him."

 **...PENNSYLVANIA HIGHWAY PATROL IS SETTING UP ROADBLOCKS ON INTERSTATES AND MAJOR HIGHWAYS LEADING OUT OF THE STATE. BE READY FOR DELAYS...**

He slams the heel of his palm into the steering wheel. "Damn it!"

He turns off the highway just as two more police cars zoom past. She watches him carefully. He still looks exhausted and now also more than a little worried. The only good thing seems to be that this latest development has sobered him up a bit.

"Where are we going?"

He doesn't answer, but as they cross into the city limits of Aliquippa, Pennsylvania, he's clearly looking for something specific. After a while, he pulls into the parking lot of an old motel called The Beaver Dam. Blinking pink neon signs boast CABLE TV! and HOURLY RATES!

He turns and looks at her, his eyes cold. "I'll be right back. Be quiet." He exits the car, locking all the doors before heading into the office. His limp is pronounced and he's clearly stiff from driving. She's ready to yell but can see nobody in sight. She watches, ready to scream if anyone appears. Nobody does.

He returns in a few minutes, a key dangling from one hand. He gets back in the car and drives her to the end of the motel that is farthest from the office. He gets out and opens the door marked with a crooked number fourteen. Leaving the door wide open, he comes for her. Once she's unlocked, he pulls his gun from his waistband and wraps his left arm around her shoulders. His right hand grips the gun which is now shoved into her side. "Make a sound and I will shoot you."

They walk to the door together, both pausing just inside the doorway as their eyes adjust to the dim interior.

Charlie glances around. "This is a dump," she mutters. The room reeks of stale cigarette smoke and lavender air freshener. The carpet is yellow shag. The beds (Charlie is happy to see two) are covered in faded red bedspreads. An old TV sits on a dresser. Everything is bolted down.

Bass pushes her toward one of the beds, motioning for her to sit. As she does, dust particles fill the air. "No. This is worse. My apologies to dumps everywhere," she smirks.

He cuffs her to the headboard and then moves to his duffel which lies on the other bed. He's digging around for something and has his back to her, but his raspy voice is clear. "Gotta get some stuff. Need anything?"

"Handcuff keys," she answers with a scowl.

He turns to look at her. His eyes are tired and his stance is weary as he watches her. For a moment she thinks that he's on the verge of smiling, but the flash of amusement is gone before it fully develops. His brow furrows. "Are you a vegetarian?"

This surprises her, but she shakes her head no.

"Good." Then he moves in closer, the ball gag clutched in his fist. She starts to scream and he shoves the gag into her open mouth.

Charlie shoots daggers at him with her eyes as he fastens the strap behind her head.

"Don't do anything crazy, Charlotte. I'll be back in an hour. If I'm not, housekeeping will find you at check out in the morning." He turns the television on and leaves, not bothering to change the channel from the Home Shopping Network.

* * *

He's gone a lot longer than an hour. While she waits, Charlie tries to nap but the television is too loud and she can't get comfortable cuffed to the bed.

When he finally does return, he enters the room with arms full of packages and Wal Mart bags hanging from both wrists. He drops everything on a table next to the door and walks her way, his eyes wary. He reaches out and takes out the gag and then unlocks one side of her cuffs. He walks back to the table and returns with a greasy bag from McDonald's. "Here."

Charlie didn't realize just how hungry she is until she smells the food in the bag. With her free hand she digs in. He had bought a quarter-pounder and a large order of fries. He comes back over to her with a vanilla shake.

"Thanks," she says around a mouthful of hamburger.

He grunts in response, taking his own bag of food to the other bed. He finds the local news on the television, sees Andover is still on the loose and uses the remote to find the History Channel. He stares at the screen as he eats, not bothering to even look her way.

They both eat quickly. When he's done, her captor stretches carefully, wincing a little before he walks back over to her. "Dessert." He tosses an individually wrapped cookie onto the bed by her thigh.

She picks it up and takes a bite. "No dessert for you?" she asks.

He holds up a brand new bottle of Johnnie Walker. "My dessert." He picks up two of the Wal Mart bags and puts them within her reach on the bed.

She finishes her cookie before looking into the bags. He's bought a pair of black sweat pants, and a three pack of white tank tops. There are travel size versions of deodorant and shampoo. In the second bag is a pack of six cotton bikini briefs and two sports bras. She looks up at him in surprise. "Everything is the right size. I guess you pay attention."

He shrugs, taking a deep drink. She watches him for a while, her curiosity building, but he doesn't look her way. Occasionally he checks the local news, but Andover is still unaccounted for when Charlie drifts off to sleep.

* * *

Night is full dark beyond the motel window, but once again Bass can't sleep. He'd turned the TV off long ago, and now he drinks with only the dull pink glow of the neon from outside to illuminate his surroundings. His mind is filled with images of his dead son and memories of blood and pain.

He shakes his head, hoping to clear away the ugly thoughts that assault him at every turn.

Today had not gone as expected. He'd hoped to be well on his way to their next destination by now, but this escaped convict has really thrown a wrench into Bass's plans.

"So, you're calling this a plan, now?" Suddenly Connor is leaning against the brown paneling, smirking at his dad.

"Yeah. I guess I am." Bass answers with a shaky voice. His eyes devour the hallucination of his son – whole and healthy, wearing an old Zeppelin tee shirt and jeans.

"I'd call it a hot mess." Connor arches a brow, his expression challenging.

"Whatever." Bass scowls. His voice sounds a bit slurred even to his own ears. Bass glances down at the bottle and sees that it's empty. He tosses it aside.

"You need to cut back on the drinking."

"Jesus. You sound like her."

"She's not wrong, Dad. You need to stop or at least slow down."

"No. It helps me forget."

"Are you sure? Seems like you do more remembering when you're drunk."

"It helps. It…hurts less."

"You're a wreck." Connor shakes his head. "But anyway, maybe forgetting isn't the answer. Maybe you need to remember." Connor walks over and sits next to his dad on the bed.

"Don't want to remember. Don't want to think about all that could have been." Bass shakes his head and frowns.

"You sound like you're giving up."

"Just being honest. This is all about to go to hell, and it's not going to end well for me." Bass stares at the floor. "I know that."

"Doesn't have to be that way. I died. You didn't."

"Part of me died with you."

Connor nods toward the other bed where Charlie is sleeping with her back to them. "She needs you to not be a drunken asshole. So even if you can't sober up for yourself, sober up for her. She deserves better than to get killed because you were being stupid."

"I'm not going to kill her."

"Yeah? I bet the drunk driver who ran into your family thought the same thing."

Bass stares at the wall for a long time, fighting back angry tears. He turns to tell Connor to go away, but the mirage of his dead son is already gone. His gun is sitting on the floor by the bed. He bends and picks it up, running his fingers along the cold steel.

The gun is loaded, and the idea of using it is more tempting than he'd have ever thought possible. He could end it all right here. No more pain. No more missing his son. No more missing anybody. No more darkness. No more anything….

He turns off the safety, staring into the black hole of the barrel. He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He closes his eyes.

"Don't do it."

At first he wonders if the softly whispered words are just more of his imagination going overboard. He feels her gaze and turns his head. Charlotte is watching him, propped up on one elbow, her hands still shackled to the headboard. Her eyes are large and full of something – fear, maybe? Worry?

He doesn't know.

"Don't do it," she says again, her voice louder. "Things will get better."

He shakes his head. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Maybe. Maybe not." She sits up slowly, staring at him. "I know suicide is the easy way out. You don't seem like a an easy way out kind of guy. Seems like you're tougher than that.." She narrows her eyes, and changes tactics. "Don't be a pussy."

Bass's eyes blaze with fury. "You don't get to talk to me like that."

"What are you going to do? Shoot me?" She shakes her head. "I don't think so. This whole plan of yours is going to fall apart if you're dead, right? I think it also falls apart if I'm dead. Don't you need to deliver me to someone or something?"

"What do you care? If I died, you could go free."

She shrugs. "I'll get free eventually anyway. That's irrelevant. I just don't want to see anybody blow their head off, not even someone I hate."

He doesn't answer, but he does put the gun back on the floor before he lies down and rolls to face the wall.

* * *

When Charlie wakes the next morning, she sees that he's packing his duffel. "Did they catch that guy who escaped?" she asks.

He shakes his head no. "Doesn't matter. We've wasted too much time here. Gotta get going. We'll stick to back roads."

She sits up slowly, noticing for the first time that her hands are free. Her gaze jerks up to meet his. He has his gun out and is training it on her. He shakes his head slowly. "Just take a shower and then we'll go."

She glances at the hotel room door, but he's closer to it than she is and looks alert, although a bit pale. As if reading her mind, he speaks. "I feel like shit this morning. Don't try me."

Charlie considers making a run for it anyway, but catches a whiff of herself and decides he's right. She does need a shower. She picks up the Wal Mart bag and heads toward the bathroom.

"Leave the door unlocked."

She glowers at him for a moment, but decides she wants a shower more than she wants a fight. She walks into the bathroom and firmly shuts the door behind her. As the lock clicks into place, she smiles, but the smile fades when she looks around the tiny bathroom and sees there are no windows or any other way out.

He taps on the door, and she tenses. But he doesn't try to break it down. Instead, she hears his voice. "Five minutes."

Charlie has every intention of ignoring him and taking her time until she finds that whatever hot water might have been in the pipes of this old place is long gone. She washes quickly, her teeth chattering as she dries off. She pulls on the clean clothes and has to admit she feels a lot better.

She exits the bathroom and looks around. The duffel and shopping bags are gone. For a moment she thinks he is as well, but then she feels the barrel of his gun pressing into her spine.

"Go." He nudges her toward the door.

He stands close as they walk to the car. He's reaching for the back door's handle when she stops him. "Let me sit up front. I don't want to get sick again."

He shakes his head no and opens the car's back door.

"Please? I hate the back seat." She tries to catch his gaze but he's scanning the parking lot and street. His jaw is tight, his eyes narrowed. She jerks away from his hold. "Oh, come on! I just want to sit up –"

He jams the barrel of the gun hard into her ribs and his breath is hot on her cheek, the fingers of his other hand tight around her arm. "Back seat or the trunk. Your choice."

"God, you're a dick." She tilts her chin stubbornly but sits in the back and watches as he fastens the chains. She considers kicking him again but he seems to read her mind.

"Don't do it."

Charlie starts to reply but thinks better of it and clamps her lips shut. She watches him warily as he closes her door and slowly walks around to his own. He sits down gingerly, ignoring her as he starts the car. He turns on the radio and listens to a brief news report that states Titus is still on the loose. This news update does offer one new piece of information. The roadblocks have been removed because the authorities believe that the fugitive has left Pennsylvania.

Charlie huffs with displeasure at this news. She'd hoped they'd see a lot more police cars and she'd have a chance to get away. She looks at him, catching his gaze in the rearview mirror.

He shakes his head. "Gonna sulk or hand me a CD?"

Charlie hesitates for a moment, but finally shrugs. "Here." She hands up the first disk her hand falls on: _Supernatural_ by Santana.

He slides the disk home before steering the car onto the highway. Charlie settles into her seat, watching the storefronts, gas stations, and apartment buildings that pass by and listening to the swell of the guitar music pumping through the speakers.

* * *

They ride without speaking; only interacting when it's time to change disks. He occasionally checks for local news reports, but there is nothing new on the fugitive situation. As the highway miles fade behind them, they go through _Destroyer_ by Kiss, _Vitalogy_ by Pearl Jam and _Faith_ by George Michael. The final track from _Love it to Death_ by Alice Cooper winds down, and Charlie's stomach rumbles.

He looks up and meets her gaze once more.

"Hungry," she says.

He nods and turns at the next exit, slowing when several gas stations and fast food restaurants come into view. There is a massive Quick Trip on the left. It is bustling with customers. On the right is a small Phillips 66 station with one working gas pump. The other pump has a brown paper bag pulled over the top. He pulls in and fills the gas tank. He opens her door and leans down. "I'll get food. Need anything else?"

"Bathroom."

He sighs but nods before heading inside to pay. He returns in a few minutes with a couple candy bars and a key attached to a two by four with a chain. The board is painted yellow and has the word 'Toilet' scrawled on it with red marker. Instead of letting her out, he drives the car to the back corner of the station where the door to the public bathroom faces a deserted parking lot. He unlocks her shackles and then pulls her out of the car, walking her to the door, the gun planted firmly in her side.

She notes that the paint on the bathroom door is faded and the wood around the lock is splintered. Used condoms and beer cans are strewn about the ground. She wrinkles her nose at the filth and the stink, but it doesn't seem to bother him at all. He unlocks the door and peeks inside before nodding for her to go in. "It's empty," he says.

A noise catches their attention and they both watch as a skinny rat scurries across the floor. "Well, almost," he amends.

Charlie shudders, but her bladder doesn't care if there are a hundred rats. She needs to pee. She walks through the door and pulls it shut behind her. Finishing her business as quickly as possible, she exits. Glancing left and right, she sees no sign of her captor.

Instinct kicks in. This is her chance to flee.

She doesn't hesitate, running around the corner of the building to the back, which is dark despite the mid-day sun. A rusty old dumpster is nestled amongst several scrappy looking trees. Scrub brush and garbage litter the ground around the dumpster. Charlie sees a narrow path between it and the building and she takes it at a sprint.

She rounds the other side of the building and slams face first into a body. Her first terrified thought is that he's found her - probably figured she'd come this way all along. She raises her eyes to meet his, but with a shock of surprise, she sees this is not the man who took her in Boston.

This is someone else. He is slender with narrow features and smooth dark hair. He smiles and the smile feels wrong somehow, although Charlie can't pinpoint why. She pushes her initial uncertainty aside and says, "Thank God! I've been kidnapped. You've got to help me."

"Of course, dear. I'll be happy to help." The strange smile widens but his eyes seem cold.

Charlie hesitates. "Listen, maybe if you have a cell phone I could borrow?"

"No. I'm afraid I don't have a phone, but I'd be happy to give you a ride." He nods to an old van that is parked maybe twenty feet away. "Come along."

Charlie's instincts switch to high alert. Something is seriously wrong with this guy. "Actually, I'll just go inside the gas station. I bet they have a phone I can use." Charlie starts to back away and the skinny man with the dead eyes follows her, matching each step she takes.

He reaches out, placing a clammy hand on her arm. "Oh, but I insist." His eyes glitter with menace, and Charlie opens her mouth to scream.

The scream dies in her throat as she watches an arm snake around the man's throat, squeezing. The crazy man's eyes bulge and his fingers dig and scrape at the arm but the vice like grip does not give way. It is only when the creepy man's eyes roll back in his head that he is released, slithering to the ground in a motionless heap.

Charlie's gaze swivels up to face her savior – none other than the man who has made her life hell for the last three days. "You?"

"Expecting someone else?" He looks exhausted and maybe a little worried, that is until his gaze falls to the man on the ground. His lips curl in distaste as he kicks the fallen man with a worn boot. "Bastard," he mutters.

"Why did you kill him?" She points to the body on the ground.

Her captor shakes his head. "Didn't kill him." He pulls the fur lined cuffs from a back pocket and attaches one to the man's wrist. He hooks the other cuff to a support brace on the metal dumpster and clicks it shut. "He's gonna wish I had killed him when he gets locked up."

"Locked up?" Charlie is dazed.

He looks at her with narrowed eyes. "Don't you recognize him? This is that pervert from the news." In a moment, he's at her side and once more the gun is out of his waistband and trained on her.

She ignores the gun, and watches him carefully. Now that the adrenaline has faded to a normal level, she replays the look on his face as the criminal had fallen. He'd been focused and ruthless and totally in control. This one glimpse had shown her a different side of this man. Instead of the lost and broken man she'd grown familiar with, that other version had been calm and collected. She shakes her head. "I don't understand you at all."

"Yeah. Me either. Come on."

As they near the car, she has a thought. "Can I sit up front now?"

"You just tried to escape."

"Please?" Charlie tilts her head slightly, flashing this man the same face she'd used on her dad and brother whenever she wanted something they didn't want to give her.

He grumbles something under his breath as he opens the passenger door and lets her in. He fastens her shackles to a metal bar under the dash. "Don't try anything cute, or I will shoot you."

Charlie frowns as he slams the door and walks slowly around the front of the car. "No, I don't think you will," she says quietly before he opens his own door. As he settles into his seat, she watches him curiously.

"What?" He growls.

"Where were you?"

"I thought I recognized the van from the descriptions on the news, so I went back to check it out. Didn't think you'd be done so fast."

"I didn't want to stay with the rats any longer than I had to." Charlie shudders. Smirking, she added, "Then I ran into an even bigger rat when I ran."

They sit in silence as he maneuvers the car back onto the highway. After a little while, he reaches into the back seat and blindly grabs a handful of CDs, giving them to her. "Here. Now that you're up front, you can run the stereo yourself."

* * *

Bass glances over at his prisoner. It's been several hours since the run-in with Titus Andover, and the drive since has been uneventful. His stomach clenches at the thought of how close she came to escaping. He'd acted on instinct, unthinkingly going after Andover. He knew it had been the right thing to do. Still, if Charlotte had gotten away…

She's fallen asleep again, her head leaning against the car window. Her chest rises and falls gently with each breath. When she's not bitching or provoking him, he supposes she's pretty. Not that it matters, but he notices.

The last CD she'd put in the player is almost over. He takes a deep drink from the flask he keeps tucked in his pocket. Now that the threat of roadblocks are behind them, he's drinking again. Only when he's drinking does the pain in his chest fade.

He misses Connor.

"So you moved her up to first class?" Connor asks with a chuckle.

Bass turns to see his son. He's sitting in the middle of the backseat, with his forearms resting on the front seat. He's leaning up so that his face is hovering between Bass and Charlie. Bass's heart lurches at the sight of his son's familiar smirk.

"You're back."

"Yeah. Can't seem to stay away. Glad to see you're being a little nicer to her." He nods in Charlie's direction.

"None of this is her fault."

"Ready to let her go?"

"Can't. Not yet. You know that. Still have to deliver her. Still have to get answers."

"No answers are going to bring me back."

Bass is staring straight ahead once more. His knuckles are white as he grips the steering wheel. "I know. That's why–"

Connor shakes his head vigorously. "No, Dad. Don't even think it. Things will get better."

"No." Bass's voice shakes, and his eyes well with unshed tears. "No they won't."

* * *

Charlie wakes slowly, stretching tired legs. "Where are we?" she asks him.

He doesn't answer, which no longer surprises her. She looks out the window and watches the passing scenery with minimal interest. Trees and small houses, all set against a backdrop of a sunny afternoon. They pass a farm with a white wooden fence. Charlie sits up straighter.

Something feels familiar. Her senses are suddenly on full alert.

When they drive into a small town and pass the 'Welcome to Jasper' sign, she almost says something, but decides to keep quiet. She knows Jasper. She spent summers here at her grandparents' as a child. They drive by the playground where she'd run with her friends. They drive by St. John's church where Grandma Matheson had dragged her every Sunday morning. They drive past the town square, with its milling townsfolk going about their daily lives.

Charlie watches him, noticing how he stares only at the road. His eyes never wander to take in any of the town they are driving through. She wonders if this is a coincidence, but dismisses the idea when without warning, he takes a left on a narrow road that curves through an old part of town and into the country.

He knows his way around.

"Where are you taking me?" she asks.

"Not taking you anywhere. Have to make a stop. You'll sit here and wait." His eyes never stray from the road as he drives. The sunlight is glaring right in their eyes as he finally pulls onto a patch of gravel at the side of the road. She can hear the crunch of the rocks under the car's tires. Charlie squints against the golden glow, trying to make out where they are.

He opens his door and gets out without looking her way. She watches as he limps across the gravel parking lot toward a gentle grassy hill. His shoulders are stooped and his head hangs low as he walks.

She feels a pang in her chest as her eyes adjust and she sees that the field he's walking into is littered with cold gray headstones and marble monuments. As the scene comes into focus, she remembers the day she'd stood at her father's side in this very cemetery when Grandma Matheson had been laid to rest.

Why is her captor here? What is his connection to Jasper? Charlie doesn't know why he feels compelled to come here, but she knows that somehow, this changes everything…

* * *

 **A/N First of all, sorry for the long delay in chapters - for that matter in all updates from me. I've been struggling with some muse issues. Hoping it's temporary, but we'll see. For those wondering, Romeo and I are closing in on the next chapter of Call Me When You're Home - it's written, but going through some editing at the moment. And I'll post the next chap of Iambic Pentameter soon-ish and then I'll be back here for chapter four. For those who haven't given up on me, thanks for sticking around.**

 **Secondly, Romeo...hope you like this third installment of your birthday fic. Its been fun. :) Thanks to Ice for some geographic advice about Pennsylvania. And a monumental thank you to TexasRevoFan for doing the beta review and offering some awesome feedback for this chapter.**

 **Lastly, comment if you have a moment. Comments often mean all the difference when it comes to getting energized to write another chapter, and I can use all the energizing I can get. :) Thanks all. -Lemon**


	4. Chapter 4: Jasper

**Jasper, Indiana**

* * *

Charlie stares out the car's passenger window at the golden pink of the late afternoon sky. Somewhere in the distance, she hears a low rumble of thunder, but there are no clouds in the sky as the sun begins its slow descent behind the tree line.

She's been waiting here in the car for a while now – maybe twenty minutes. Maybe longer? She isn't sure.

She's only sure of one thing – her captor is sitting by himself in Jasper's only graveyard, getting drunk. She knows this is what he's doing because if she leans over as far as her shackles will allow, she can see him through the driver's side of the windshield.

When they'd first arrived, she'd watched him, stretching her body until her wrist ached and stung. He'd made himself comfortable, leaning back against a large grey stone. He seemed to be talking to himself at first, but eventually fell silent.

She chews at a fingernail, lost in thought. She hasn't been back to Jasper in years. Being here again is strange and bizarre. Her thoughts are drawn to the man who has taken her, and once again she tries to understand his connection to this town.

To her.

* * *

The air is cool. The breeze feels heavy with the promise of rain. The cemetery is silent save for the occasional call of a bird and the distant sounds of an incoming storm.

Bass rests his head back against a familiar marble headstone and sighs before taking a drink from the bottle he cradles between his knees.

"And why are we here?" Connor's voice rouses Bass from his thoughts.

When Bass looks over, he sees his son sitting on the grass, watching him. "Wanted to say goodbye to everyone, I guess." Bass waves his bottle around a bit. "Sort of a family reunion."

Connor nods slowly and then points to the stone he sits closest to. "Grandma, right? I never knew her, but you always said she was gentle and kind."

Bass smiles sadly. "She was."

"And Grandpa? You said he was an asshole sometimes, but that he was protective and loyal to a fault."

"Yeah."

"And your sisters?" Connor points to the other gravestones just beyond Bass's parents. "I bet they adored their big brother."

Bass wipes at his eyes. "They were the best."

"Probably loved you so much."

"More than I deserved."

"So, they'd be real proud to see you doing all this self-destructive shit, right?"

Bass shakes his head. "You don't understand."

"Maybe. Maybe not. I didn't ever know that part of the family." He nods toward the headstone that Bass is leaning against. "But I knew her. I knew her, and I know that she would never be okay with this stupid plan of yours. Never."

"Shut up."

"No. You need to hear this. Shelly loved you. She was your biggest fan. She loved you so much, and she was always there for you, and for me too. She never treated me like I was someone else's kid. She was a mom to me in ways my real mom never could be. She loved you and she loved me and we both know how much she loved that baby."

Bass can't speak. He just shakes his head.

"Do you remember the nursery? She had it all painted up, and that dresser was full of all those tiny baby clothes? She couldn't wait for that baby to be born. You couldn't either. You guys were so happy."

"Yeah. Until…" Bass chokes on the words, eventually forcing them out. "Until they died."

"Yeah. They died. I died. You didn't."

Bass doesn't respond.

"Can you even imagine if Shelly was here right now? She would kick your ass to kingdom come for kidnapping that woman. I can just picture her with her hands on her hips and her eyes flashing. She wouldn't even let you defend yourself until she was done telling you off."

Bass wipes at his eyes again. "You're right. Shelly would be pissed."

"Yeah, she would. She'd be pissed because this is stupid. All of it. You know how stupid it is, right?"

"Yeah. I know." Bass looks with wet pleading eyes at his son. "But I'm doing it for you."

"Won't bring me back. Won't bring any of us back."

"I know." Bass repeats, his voice faltering. When he looks over at the space where Connor had been, the grass blows softly in the cool breeze. Connor is gone.

Bass finishes the last of his whiskey and lies down on his late wife's grave. His thoughts are hazy and disjointed as he slides his fingers through silky grass that doesn't feel at all like Shelly's dark brown curls.

He is so lost in his own pain, he doesn't even notice when the rain begins to fall.

* * *

Charlie has leaned her seat back, and her feet are propped on the dash. Her eyes are closed in an effort to take a nap, but sleep eludes her. Maybe it's the rain that pelts the car. Maybe it's the metal band digging into her wrist. Maybe it's the fact that the bane of her existence seems determined to catch pneumonia by lying on the cold ground as the rain pours down.

Maybe it's everything.

"Shit," she mutters as her eyes snap open, giving up any pretense of resting. She leans all the way over into the driver's side once more. She can just barely make him out now. The sun is setting, and the rain falls heavily. He isn't moving, and Charlie isn't sure if that means he's passed out or dead.

Even though she should hope for the latter, a small voice in the back of her head tells her not to be so harsh. Clearly this guy is going through some emotional minefield that she can't even imagine.

Charlie sighs heavily, running her free hand through her hair as she considers her options. Does she just wait till he wakes up and wanders back to the car, or is there something she can do to urge him to return sooner?

She knows the horn is broken. She'd tried that as soon as the rain started, and nothing had happened. What else can she do? The cemetery is isolated, and even if she were to yell, he would be unlikely to hear her over the sound of the rain.

Her eyes wander around the interior of the old car. She takes in the ripped fabric in the roof and the dusty hula girl on the dash. There is something completely incongruous between this car and her captor. She's not sure what, exactly… but something feels off.

Maybe this isn't his car at all.

Charlie's eyes fall to the glove compartment. It's locked, and she doesn't have a key. But she seemingly has time to spare, so she decides to do what she can to open it. Maybe answers lie inside.

She searches everywhere she can reach for something sharp. All she finds is an empty beer can, several petrified French fries, a pair of broken aviator sunglasses, and a tree-shaped air freshener that still smells faintly of vanilla.

She turns the sunglasses slowly in her fingers, lost in thought. After a while, she breaks off one of the earpieces from the sunglasses and clumsily uses it to attack the lock.

Much later, when she finally hears the click that signals success, her face breaks into a triumphant grin. Her fingers are scraped and shaking slightly as she opens the small door. She feels around inside the space blindly because by now, the night is full and dark. What little light the moon might have offered is muted by the dark storm clouds and the falling rain.

Her fingers first find a plastic pouch of some kind. Whatever is inside feels mostly soft and powdery. Drugs maybe? She sets it in the driver's seat and keeps going. Next she feels a bulky sealed envelope and some papers which she also sets aside. Not much else is the glove compartment. She is ready to give up when she feels something jammed in the back of the space. It is cylindrical and thin - bigger than an ink pen, but not by much. She pries it loose and holds her breath when she realizes that the thing in her hand is a pen light. Charlie closes her eyes, trying not to get her hopes up.

She flips the switch on the side of the small flashlight and is thrilled to see a dull circle of yellow light shining from its dusty tip. She flashes it at the stack of things she'd pulled from the glove box. She looks at the plastic bag first. Charlie has never done drugs, but she's watched more than her fair share of _Law & Order_. She doesn't know what the gray powder in the bag is, but she's pretty sure it isn't drugs, so she puts it aside.

She picks up the stack of miscellaneous papers, unfolding the one on top to see a car registration form. The name on the paper is smudged, and she can't make it out. Frustrated, she tosses it aside, and flips through a few highway maps before eyeing a scrap of paper stuck between Iowa and Vermont. She shines her light on a handwritten note. Although the handwriting is abysmal, the ink on this is not smudged and she can make out the words clearly.

 _Charlotte Matheson. Works at homeless Shelter on South Sylvania Rd, Boston. Shift usually starts at noon. Gets off at 8. Will prob fight back, but don't hurt her. Deadline = one week. 10998 Mitchell Drive, Los Angeles CA. Payment on delivery_

Charlie grips the paper tightly, and leans back against the seat. She closes her eyes but can't stop the tears from squeezing through. After a moment, she wipes angrily at her damp cheeks and turns to inspect the bulky envelope. For a moment, she debates whether she should open it. She decides that after all she's been through, she doesn't give a shit about her captor's privacy.

She breaks the seal and shines the light on her palm as she lets the contents of the envelope slide out. "Dog tags?" She frowns at the small rectangles attached to a narrow ball chain. She grasps one of the tags and shines the light directly on it.

Bennett  
Connor, J  
211 44 1299  
AB+  
Lutheran

"Connor Bennett…." She feels a jolt of familiarity, but can't pinpoint where she knows the name from. She's trying to figure it out when her gaze falls on the bag of powder once more. She picks it up, looking at it more closely. It's a garden variety mid-size Ziploc bag, and it is filled with fine gray powder. Little white chunks are also apparent when she tilts the bag, letting the contents shift. "Oh, Jesus." Charlie chokes back a sob as the enormity of what this really is hits her full force.

No, definitely not drugs. The bag is filled with ashes…ashes from a cremation.

She grasps the dog tags tightly in her fist, remembering the times when her captor had talked to someone who wasn't there. She remembers seeing the sorrow and loss in his haunted eyes. She'd asked him who he'd lost.

He had never answered.

She slowly unfurls her clenched fist, and stares at the exposed tags. She leans in close with the light and stares at the letters stamped into the metal surface.

This time when she sees the name, it is as if a veil is lifted. Her mental gears click into place, and she is brought back to the blurry image from her childhood that had tempted the edges of her consciousness a few days earlier. Now that blurry image swirls and zooms into focus, and suddenly she sees it as clear as day. The wedding at St John's church, right here in Jasper. The pink party dress Charlie had worn. The reception hall with the white tables. A little boy with jet black curls. She knows now that this is a real memory and not a figment of her imagination. Charlie reverently strokes the bag of ash and bone and she remembers.

" _You are so pretty. Can I kiss you?" the little boy had asked, his brown eyes sparkling. He was about her age, wearing a tuxedo and a mischievous grin. He kept pulling at the collar, clearly not loving the restrictive clothing._

" _No way!" Eight year old Charlie had crossed her arms and tapped one foot in irritation. Her white Mary Jane shoes had made a sharp click click click sound as she moved her foot._

" _Please? Just one little kiss?" He'd given her big pleading puppy dog eyes, but she shook her head._

" _No way. Daddy says I shouldn't kiss anybody 'til I'm older."_

" _What if I get you some more cake? Can I kiss you then?"_

 _Charlie had bitten her lip, as memories of the tasty lemon cake with cream cheese frosting weakened her resolve. It had been fabulous. She eyed him suspiciously. "I don't even know your name."_

 _The boy's grin had widened as it became clear he would get what he wanted after all. "Name is Connor Bennett. That's my dad." He had pointed at the newlyweds, where they were twirling on the dance floor._

 _Charlie had watched them dance while she contemplated the boy's offer. The song had been soft and melodic. The bride's dress had swirled beautifully with every step as she looked up at her new husband with wide loving eyes. The man's gaze had been adoring and fully focused on his bride as he led her across the floor._

Charlie remembers that she hadn't let Connor come close until he'd brought her the promised slice of cake. She remembers the tangy lemon on her tongue as a small damp kiss had been planted on her cheek. She remembers blushing as he'd smirked. She remembers the way he'd waved before running away.

She remembers later as she and her dad were leaving the party, they had stopped to say goodbye to the happy couple. She remembers the big smiles and bright hopeful eyes.

She remembers it all.

Charlie knows now who her captor is. Yes, he's older now and ravaged by grief. The beard and the dead eyes and the hollow cheekbones had disguised the truth at first, but now she sees it. The broken man who had shoved her in the trunk of an old car was once a grinning bridegroom who had danced with his bride and firmly believed in a happily ever after.

Charlie remembers everything, and her heart breaks for this man and his dead son. She carefully places the bag back in the glove box and tucks the flashlight and maps in after it. She hesitates before closing the door and putting the wrinkled paper with the handwritten note in her pocket.

That paper – well, that is something else entirely, and it deserves her full attention, but not right now.

She stares out into the black night, worry gnawing at her gut. The rain hasn't let up, and the air is colder. She needs to get Connor's dad back in the car before he gets sick. Knowing it's probably futile, but deciding she has no other option, Charlie Matheson begins to scream.

* * *

"Rise and shine."

At first Bass doesn't even register the voice. He feels hot and wet. Why is he lying down in the shower? Why is there grass? His head pounds, and his clothes are soaked through. Clothes? Bass blearily opens his eyes and sees he's not at home. He's not in his shower.

"Rise and shine." He hears again. Glancing up, he sees Connor, who is completely dry in spite of the pounding rain. He looks worried. "You need to get up. She needs you."

"Who?" Bass asks, with a croak. His throat feels tight, and his voice is scratchy. "Who needs me?"

Connor doesn't answer. He's gone.

Bass rubs his temples as he slowly sits up. His body aches. The wound in his thigh throbs. He feels like he's burning up, and his thoughts feel random and wild. The rain is cold on his hot skin but offers little relief. "Who needs me?" he mutters once more, almost frantic as he fights through the mental fog in search of the answer to this seemingly important question.

Then he hears it – the sound of a woman screaming.

* * *

Charlie's voice is almost gone, but she's determined to give this all she's got. When she sees him stagger to his feet and head her way, she exhales slowly in relief. He looks even worse than he had earlier. His hair is plastered to his head. His beard drips like an old mop. His eyes look bleary and unfocused. His skin is flushed. His clothes are completely drenched.

He glares at her when he opens the door and then tosses his empty bottle into the back seat before getting in.

"Are you okay?" she croaks.

"Why were you screaming? Didn't I tell you to be quiet?" His brow is furrowed, and he won't look at her.

"Thought you might be dead."

He doesn't answer, but puts the key in the ignition. He turns the car around on the narrow country road and heads toward town. They've only gone half a mile when he's wracked by a coughing fit.

"You're sick," she says.

He glances at her sharply, appearing confused by the concern in her voice. "I'll be fine," he mutters.

Clearly this is not true. Charlie reaches out toward him. He jerks away, but his reflexes are shaky and slow. Her hand lands softly on his forehead. "You have a fever."

"I'll be fine," he grits out once more.

"Find a hotel. You need dry clothes and a bed. Probably some Tylenol."

He shakes his head. "No hotel."

Charlie just shakes her head with frustration. Clearly he is too stubborn even to save his own skin. She crosses her arms and watches through the passenger window as the rain continues to fall. Her attention turns back to the road ahead as he slows, turning down a residential street. Small, tidy houses line both sides of the narrow road. Old sycamore trees tower far above. Streetlights shine dully through the pouring rain.

He slows and pulls into a driveway. Charlie watches curiously as the headlights illuminate a small house with a quaint front porch and a for sale sign in the front yard. "Who lives here?" she asks.

"Nobody." He gets out, takes his bag from the back seat and comes around to her side. She notes that his limp is bad again – maybe the worst it has been since the first day. He's unsteady on his feet as he opens her car door and unlocks her chains clumsily. He doesn't pull out his gun, but she doesn't argue when he motions for her to walk up the stairs before him. He stops twice to lean against the railing as coughs rattle his entire body.

Charlie considers running, but she can't. Not yet. He mentioned once that he needs answers. Well, so does she.

When they get to the entryway, he shakily reaches up and grabs a key from the top of the door jamb and uses it to unlock the door. Once they are inside, Charlie looks around. The living room they are standing in is clean and sparsely furnished. A painting of cabbage roses hangs over a fireplace. Overstuffed furniture faces it in a cozy arrangement.

Just like the car, something about this house makes her think it's not his.

Regardless of who owns the house or might live in it, her captor clearly knows his way around. He pushes Charlie to walk in front of him, and together they make their way down a narrow hallway. He chains her to a doorknob and disappears into a bathroom with his bag, closing the door behind him without saying a word.

Charlie slides to the floor and waits. She hears him turn on some water and then muffled sounds as he moves around. Now and then he pauses to cough. After a few minutes he comes back out, wearing dry clothes. His skin is still damp and flushed. His eyes look glassy.

"I think you're really sick," she says softly.

He shrugs and unlocks her cuff, only to lead her farther down the hall. They enter a bedroom that is furnished with a queen size bed and nothing else. A flickering night light that is plugged into a corner outlet offers the only illumination. Charlie can't make out much as he unceremoniously locks her to the headboard before plopping down on the bed.

"What about food?" she asks. "Or a bathroom break for me?" He doesn't move. She raises her voice, "I'm hungry, and I will need to pee soon."

He mumbles something unintelligible but doesn't open his eyes or address her concerns. After a few minutes, she hears his breathing level out into soft snoring.

"Son of a bitch," she mutters, pulling at her shackle. She gives up after a few minutes, and lies down beside him.

He doesn't stir and eventually Charlie drifts off to sleep, her mind swirling with the image of an ornery little boy and the happy man her captor had once been.

* * *

Charlie wakes to the sound of softly falling rain outside and the intimate warmth of a body that she has curled against in sleep. She opens her eyes slowly. Her first thought is that she hasn't slept so well in days, and she feels refreshed.

Her second thought is that it's her captor who she's curled against like a lover, his body firm and warm against hers. Her eyes fly to his face. He is flushed and his breathing sounds labored, but he is fast asleep.

She pulls away from him slowly. He makes a soft whimpering sound, and his brow furrows. Charlie holds her breath, letting it out slowly when he stills. She reaches tentatively with her free hand and touches his forehead. He's still burning up.

Charlie has to pee, but she's chained to the bed. She considers trying to wake him and is ready to do just that when she has another idea. He's wearing a loose sweatshirt and baggy jeans. She is pretty sure he put the keys to both his car and the handcuffs in his front right pocket.

She bites her lip as she tries to think of the best way to retrieve the keys without waking him. He's on his back but his shirt is twisted and pulled tightly against his right side, obscuring the pocket she needs to get into. Charlie reaches over and pulls gently at the hem of his shirt.

He shifts again, mumbling something in his sleep. She freezes until he settles and then she pulls at the shirt again. It's clear that her first plan isn't going to work. The shirt is too twisted around his torso to be pulled away easily without waking him up. Frowning in concentration, she tries a new tack, ever so slowly sliding her hand between the hem of his shirt and the worn denim of his jeans. She runs her fingertips along his waistband and is headed toward his pocket when he pulls her closer without warning. She can tell he's still asleep, but this unconscious move not only moves her back into the crook of his arm; it also pushes her hand upward and now she feels flesh under her fingers instead of denim.

"Oh," she says, her voice just a whisper. She doesn't mean to do it exactly, but she can't help flexing her fingers ever so slightly, exploring his toned, sculpted flesh and defined abdominal muscles that feel so hot to the touch, she wonders if he would literally steam if she dripped water on his skin.

She's lost in exactly that visual when he stirs.

"Mmm, feels good." His eyes are still closed and his words are slurred with sleep, but it's enough to redirect Charlie's attention back to her task. She moves more deliberately this time, edging her fingers back down and into his pocket. She finds the car keys first and fishes them out carefully. Next, she goes back in for the handcuff key, but it eludes her. She has to shift her weight so that she can get a better angle before going back in.

She fishes out several folded dollars. At a glance she counts sixty bucks. She quickly tucks the cash into her bra and goes back into his pocket once more in search of the key. Finally her fingertips touch the small handcuff key, and she begins to pull. As the key comes free, Charlie can't help but grin in triumph.

She looks at his face once more, and is relieved to see it is still relaxed with deep slumber. She rolls away from him slowly and lifts the key to the handcuff wrapped around her wrist. It takes a couple tries, but she is soon free.

Charlie takes a moment to stretch her aching shoulder muscles and rub at her stinging wrist. Then she leaves the bedroom without looking back.

* * *

Bass wakes to the glare of mid-morning light that pours through the open window. His body aches, and his chest feels heavy. His limbs are sluggish, and the need to cough is overwhelming. After a few minutes of bone-shaking coughs, he tries to get comfortable. His head is throbbing and he feels like he's on fire from the inside out.

"Shit," he mutters. Charlotte had been right. He's very sick.

His eyes pop open at the thought of the girl and the first thing he sees makes his heart race. Hanging from the headboard is one of the silver chains from Will Strausser's box of tricks. Dangling from the chain is an empty fur lined cuff.

Charlotte is gone.

Bass knows he should go after her, but when he tries to sit up, the world spins and he doesn't have the strength to do anything but fall back into the pillows, groaning. Even in his pathetic state, he knows that losing her means he'll never get the answers he wants.

He's too sick to do anything about her for now.

* * *

Charlie had a driver's license at one time, but that time was long ago and she is nervous behind the wheel of her captor's car. She is hyper vigilant about obeying traffic laws and not speeding as she drives through the streets. After all, she has no identification and she is in a car that definitely doesn't belong to her.

She isn't as familiar with this part of Jasper as she is with the neighborhoods near her grandparents' old house, but she had been paying attention and quickly finds her way back to the main drag.

She spots a sign that says the interstate is only a mile away, and she turns the car in that direction.

* * *

Bass wakes almost an hour later to the sound of someone talking. "You're gonna have to sit up just a little," the voice says.

"Connor?" Bass asks, groggy and miserable.

"Please sit up," the voice pleads.

Not Connor - a woman's voice.

His eyes open slowly. The sunlight is so bright that at first he sees nothing but the brutal glow that shines through the window. Gradually he is able to focus, and he is surprised by what he sees. Charlotte. "You came back," he says, amazed.

"Yeah," she says. "I went to the drug store. Got you some stuff."

"Some stuff?" He is confused and his head pounds, making logical thinking almost impossible.

"Tylenol, kleenex, a thermometer, Gatorade, ice and chicken noodle soup. Some other stuff too." She grasps his shoulder, trying to pull him up into a sitting position. "Used your money."

He balks. "Ice, and Gatorade?" Bass decides he's hallucinating again. "Soup? Why would you bring me soup?"

"The thermometer was so I could see how high your temp was. It's 102 right now. The Tylenol will hopefully help with that. If it doesn't, I'll use the ice to cool you down. The Gatorade is for keeping you hydrated, and the chicken noodle soup is food." She rolls her eyes.

"Food?" he asks blankly. "No food. Need whiskey."

"You are not getting any whiskey. You need to stay hydrated. Liquor does the opposite."

"I don't care. Want a drink." His body hurts so much that he isn't sure he'll live long enough to eat her soup anyway.

"For fuck's sake, just sit up so you can take this medicine without choking." Her brow is wrinkled with frustration.

He takes the capsules she offers and swallows them down with a gulp of cool water she holds for him. "So, you're going to take care of me?" Even in his fevered state, this feels beyond unbelievable.

"Yeah, that's the plan."

"But why? You should have just run."

She turns to leave. At the door she glances over her shoulder. "Just shut up and get some rest. We'll talk about this later."

Bass falls back on the pillows, too miserable to argue or follow her.

* * *

While he sleeps, Charlie inspects the house. It's quickly apparent that he hadn't been lying. Nobody lives here. The furniture that is in the house is starkly minimal. The place is staged to look inhabited, but it's obvious that it's all for show-probably the work of a realtor.

She peeks in on him after a half hour. He's tossing and turning, and when she touches his head, she can tell the Tylenol hasn't made a dent in his fever. In fact, he feels a lot hotter than he had been before. "Shit."

After confirming her suspicions with the thermometer, she goes to the kitchen and pulls out the bags of ice that she'd picked up earlier at the drugstore. She looks around for baggies of some kind to use on him, but finds only two plastic shopping bags. She figures those will have to do.

* * *

"What the fuck?" Bass yells blearily as he feels the shock of cold on his chest. His eyes pop open and he tries to swat at the unexpected assault only to find his hands are cuffed to the headboard. "You have got to be kidding me," he growls. His growl turns into a whine of pain as she shifts her weight. Charlotte is sitting on his thighs, holding something cold against his chest.

Maybe on a good day, he could kick her off, but this is not a good day. "My leg. Jesus, get off my leg."

She scoots farther down, settling on his knees instead.

"Better?"

"No. Get the fuck off and untie me. Then I'll be better." Bass doesn't remember ever hurting this much. Between the flu (or whatever it is he has), the wound in his leg, and the angry hangover that is splitting his head in two – he does not think he can take any more of whatever she's trying to do to him.

"Not so fun to be tied up, huh?" she smirks, pressing the bag of ice firmly over his chest. A second bag goes over his neck.

Bass jerks impotently at his shackles. "Damn it, woman! Why are you…" he looks down at the bags, trying to understand what she's doing. His head still feels like it's filled with cotton and he's struggling to make sense of what's going on. He nods to the bag on his chest. "What is that?"

"It's ice, like I told you before. Your fever spiked up to 104. Trying to cool you down." She crosses her arms stubbornly. "No need to fight with me. I'm in charge now."

He scoffs. "You're not in charge of shit. Get off!"

She takes the final bag of ice and moves to place it on his groin.

He shakes his head. "Do it and I'll kill you. I really will."

Charlie's smile fades, and her eyes cloud with sadness. "No, you won't." She stands and shoves the bag of ice under his knees instead. "Let the ice do its job for a while. We can yell at each other when you feel better."

* * *

Charlie is sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the paper from the glove compartment, when she hears a knock on the door. She bolts from the table and down the hallway. He's still chained to the bed, and he's still asleep.

She quickly runs back down the hall and peeks out the peephole. A man in his forties stands on the porch. He has black hair that is slicked back, and he's wearing a suit. He raises his fist to knock again, and Charlie jerks the door open before he can make contact. "Hello?"

The man tilts his head curiously before looking her up and down. "Hello to you, too," he finally says.

"May I help you?" she asks, eyes narrowed.

He nods slowly, still appreciating the view. "Maybe. Name is Drexel. Bobby Drexel. I'm the realtor who is trying to sell this house. Saw the car, but nobody is supposed to be here. Who are you?"

"Oh, uh..." Charlie falters, unsure what to say.

"You're a friend of Bass's, maybe?" He cocks an eyebrow with a smirk.

BASS. His name is Bass? What the hell kind of name is that? Charlie nods, "Yeah, a friend of Bass's. He's pretty sick, and we stopped here so he could rest a little. Is that okay?"

Drexel shrugs. "Well, the house still belongs to him, so yeah – it's okay. I have a showing scheduled for tomorrow, though. I was just driving by and when I saw the car, I figured I'd better see what's going on. Do you think you'll be gone by tomorrow?"

Charlie frowns. "Yeah. I think so."

Drexel takes a step back, but then seems to rethink leaving. "Maybe I should talk to him?" He peers into the house behind her.

"No. That's not a good idea. He's really sick. Contagious, even."

"Oh, yeah? What are you, his nurse?" Drexel looks at her skeptically.

"No, I'm his –" Charlie falters again, unsure how to answer.

Bobby Drexel slowly grins. It's not a nice grin. "Oh, I see. You're his… yeah. Got it. Well, have fun, and try not to mess up the house too much."

Charlie has the door shut before the skeevy realtor is even off the porch. Even though she now knows her captor's name and that he owns the house, she feels like she has even more questions than she had before.

She walks down the hallway to check on him-on Bass, she reminds herself-lost in thought.

* * *

An old but well-maintained Cadillac is parked across the street and a few houses down. Inside the car sits a man whose narrowed gaze is focused intently on Bass Monroe's small house. He watches coldly as the real estate agent drives away, quickly dismissing him as irrelevant. He is curious about the woman who had answered the door, though. He had not expected her when he'd tracked Monroe to his hometown.

Who is she? What does she know? Will she get in his way?

Will he have to kill her when he takes out Monroe?

The man in the Cadillac shrugs. He's on a mission, and he is determined to get what he needs, regardless of the cost.

He puts on his sunglasses, turns the key in the ignition and pulls out into the road. As the radio comes to life, the man smiles. He always did love this song..

 _Well, my friends, the time has come_

 _To raise the roof and have some fun_

 _Throw away the work to be done_

 _Let the music play on_

 _(Play on, play on)_

 _Everybody sing, everybody dance_

 _Lose yourself in wild romance_

 _We're going to party_

 _Karamu, fiesta, forever…_

The man in the car doesn't even glance at Monroe's house as he passes. He'll do a little digging and figure out who the girl is. Then he'll be back.

And God help anyone who gets in his way.

* * *

 **A/N: Many thanks and big squishy virtual hugs to anyone hanging with me on this one. This story continues to be for Romeo's birthday...with any luck I'll have it finished before her next one. Thanks for all the comments and follows and etc. You guys are amazing, seriously. My muse was gasping for air there for a bit...but seems to have returned (maybe). Feel free to comment - the muse loves that shit.**

 **A huge thank you to TexasRevoFan for her beta review and invaluable insight. She really helped make this chapter better than when I started. As always, my impatience is to blame for any mistakes you see.**

 **Giving credit where it's due... Song lyrics in this chapter are from Lionel Richie's "All Night Long".**


	5. Chapter 5: Jasper, part two

The sun is rising, but Miles Matheson doesn't really notice. The dingy brick office building where he works lies in the shadow of buildings much taller and much newer that have cropped up all over the city of Beloit, Wisconsin. His tiny office does have a window, but that window faces a parking lot and a dumpster instead of the rising sun.

He sits behind a scarred oak desk that has been in this office for longer than Miles has been breathing. He scowls down at the surface which is covered with papers and files and empty Styrofoam coffee cups. He might be able to blame the old building on poor city budgeting, and his wobbly desk on his predecessors taste in durable but ugly furniture, but the mess is all his. Somewhere amongst the debris on his desk is a nameplate that proclaims Miles as one of Beloit's finest.

Assuming you could find the nameplate and wipe off the dust that's accumulated in its crevices; you would see his title is _Assistant Police Commissioner_. His boss – the Commish, the Top Dog, the Big Cahuna if you will, is a mostly tolerable asshole named Malcolm Dove. Originally from Texas, Commissioner Dove is someone Miles doesn't hate working for, which for Miles is saying a lot.

They do their best to track down the bad guys and keep the good people of Beloit safe. Even when budget cuts take the department's staffing far below what most cities would consider 'bare bones', they still get the job done. This, in and of itself is a miracle. Beloit is an easy drive from both Chicago and Milwaukee and has recently experienced a staggering increase in violent crime and drug traffic.

Dove and Miles are not friends, but they have similar temperaments and have managed to co-exist without trying to kill each other for almost ten years now. Miles figures it's a win-win. The one thing Miles Matheson's nameplate doesn't say, but maybe should, is _Doesn't play well with others_. Dove understands this, because, truthfully, his name plate should say the same thing.

When the phone rings, Miles grabs it. "Matheson." He says, using a voice that usually scares away anyone who doesn't really need to see him.

"Hey Miles. It's Jeremy."

Maybe it's the sound of an old friend's voice calling out of the blue. Maybe it's the worried tone in that old friend's greeting. Whatever it is, Miles is immediately on edge. "What's wrong?"

"Wondering if you've talked to Bass?"

The worry is thicker in Baker's words now, and the air around Miles feels heavy as he thinks about his closest friend in the world. In the split moment before he answers Baker's question, he wonders if giving Bass space after the loss of his son was the wrong move. "Spoke to him for a few minutes at the funeral. Not since. What's going on?"

"Seems that he's missing."

"He's a grown ass man. Maybe he went on vacation or something? He did just retire."

"Yeah. He also sold most of his stuff and Connor's. He took Connor's old car and left town. A few nights ago he called Strausser, asking to crash at his place near Boston. Will wasn't there but told him where to find the key."

"So, not missing then." Miles rolls his eyes as the fear subsides.

"No, dickhead. MISSING. Strausser said when he got home, he found a big mess, bloody bandages in the garbage and some disturbing stuff."

Miles frowns. "What kind of stuff did Will fucking Strausser find disturbing?"

"Exactly. You know he wouldn't even call me if it wasn't worried. He said that when Bass called, he asked about first aid supplies. Wasn't sure if they were for him or someone else, but that isn't what spooked Will. The real problem is that it looked like he maybe had someone tied up and not for good reasons. We don't know who or why. Will says handcuffs and gags and some other stuff is missing. Also duct tape and rope."

Miles stands slowly, staring into space as he speaks into the phone. "What are you not telling me?"

"I may have underplayed Bass's emotional state when you asked after the funeral."

"I know Connor's death hit him hard. He was a mess. I could see that, but he'll come out of it when the grief starts to fade. Same thing happened with Shelly, and before that with his family. Bass is the most resilient fucker I know."

"Well, losing Connor like that…it might have been more than he can take. The truth is that he's not just grieving. I think he's looking for justice."

"Justice for what? Wasn't the shooting classified as friendly fire?"

"Officially, yes. Bass doesn't believe it's true."

Miles sits again, feeling as if his legs can no longer support his weight. His head is spinning. "Do you believe it?"

"No."

"Shit." Miles slams his free fist into the top of a stack of files. Empty coffee cups clatter to the floor but he doesn't notice.

"Listen, Miles. Bass might be out for vengeance, but there's more. I also think he might be suicidal. If Strausser is right about Bass kidnapping someone, and he decides to kill himself, what's to keep him from taking whoever this person is he's dragging around along with him?"

* * *

Bass wakes up slowly and groans. "Fuck," he mutters as he drags himself into a sitting position. His head feels like it's filled with cotton, and he rubs at his weary eyes, squinting against the morning light that glitters through the gauzy white curtains - curtains Shelly had picked out maybe a year before she died. He remembers how this room had looked then. There had been a beautiful cherry four poster with matching dressers. There had been a yellow bedspread. His mind pings back and forth between the past and the present. The pain in his head is almost unbearable, and he can't remember why he's here.

Suddenly and without warning, recent memories explode in his brain and it's all here and now and the grief washes over him again and he sees his son with blood gushing from his throat and Bass chokes back a sob as he remembers everything.

After a while, he gathers his composure a bit and looks around again. This time he sees the now of the place. The generic white walls, the lack of furniture other than the basic bed. Shelly isn't here. Connor isn't here. Bass groans with pain that is both physical and emotional.

What is wrong with his head? His answer is lying on the nightstand – an empty NyQuil bottle. The bottle is what fully brings him up to date, and he remembers being given some of the vile green liquid the night before.

Charlotte. He needs to find Charlotte.

With the plastic bottle gripped in one hand, Bass stumbles down the hallway. He stops at the threshold of the kitchen and leans heavily against the door frame as a wave of dizziness hits him hard. He breathes in and out carefully, his eyes closed. It takes a few moments, but Bass gradually starts to feel better and opens his eyes.

She's here. Charlotte's back is to him as she faces the sink. He opens his mouth to say something, but his lips snap shut when she starts to sway her hips. Even in his current state he can't help watching her. It is quickly evident that she does not yet know he's here. Her hair is pulled up in a ponytail, and earbuds are poking out of both ears.

Her ears aren't nearly as entertaining as some of her other features, and Monroe finds his gaze drawn south.

"She's got a nice ass." Connor says with a low whistle from where he's suddenly sitting at the kitchen table.

Bass feels his chest clench at the sight of his son in this familiar space – the home they had shared for so many years. "Connor, what are you doing here?"

"Just hanging out with your girlfriend. She's listening to my old Discman, you know?" He nods at Charlie. "Must have left it here when I went off to school."

"Not my girlfriend." Bass shakes his head.

"Whatever." Connor shrugs. "She's got good taste in music." He points to the Rubbermaid tote full of his compact disks that sits on the floor at Charlie's feet. Evidently she had brought it in from the car. An open Tom Petty jewel case lies on the counter.

Bass watches his son longingly. He wants nothing more than to hug him tight and make the last few months go away. He wipes at a tear that falls. "I miss you, Connor."

Connor's smile fades. "I know you do, Dad. Miss you too."

Their eyes hold for a moment. Connor looks away first, nodding toward Charlie. "Your girlfriend is a nice chick. I like her. Maybe she can help you move on."

Bass sits down in a chair on the opposite side of the table. "Not my girlfriend. Told you that." He frowns at the absurdity of calling the woman he'd kidnapped his girlfriend, even as the idea inexplicably appeals to him on some level.

Connor rolls his eyes. "Fine, she's not your girlfriend. Wouldn't hurt you to get laid, though. If not her, somebody. Maybe that would pull you from your funk."

"Not in a funk. Too exhausted to think about anything but getting answers. Justice."

Connor smirks. "I don't buy it. Hooking up with this hottie must have at least crossed your mind."

"Why would you even say that?"

"Mostly because I'm a figment of your imagination, Dad, and I'm telling you to stop moping around and maybe go find yourself a girl. Or maybe you've already found one..."

Bass scowls as an amused Connor fades away.

Charlie turns and jumps with a squeal when she sees Monroe sitting at the table. She presses her hand to her chest. "God, you scared me. Feeling any better?"

"No. Feel like shit." He points to the newspaper sitting on the table. "You bought a paper?'

"Borrowed it from your neighbor."

"Borrowed it?"

Charlie grins and sits down in the seat ghost Connor had occupied moments before. "Fine. I stole a paper. You stole a human. Don't judge." She seems fairly happy. This grates.

Bass rubs his temple. "Why are you so fucking cheerful?"

She tilts her head and watches him, taking a sip of coffee from an old ceramic cup that has an owl painted on the side. "Not sure. I guess I'm a glass half full kind of person."

"And why, exactly, is your glass half full?"

"I think it's because I figured out you aren't as scary as you seemed at first." She sips from her cup again. "Truth is, I think you might even be a nice guy who's just going through some bad stuff."

His mood darkens. "Bad stuff?"

"Yeah. That's what I think. How are you feeling, really?" She nods at the bottle of NyQuil. "You weren't supposed to drink it all, you know?"

"I feel like hell, and I don't remember drinking it."

"No. Don't suppose you would remember much of anything. Not after you downed a whole fucking bottle of cough medicine. You have a problem with alcohol. You know that, right?"

"Have a lot of problems." He gingerly touches his thigh and winces.

"What happened to your leg?"

Bass shakes his head. "Why are you still here?"

"Cause you threw me in a trunk and brought me here, remember?"

"No. I mean, why didn't you leave when you had the chance?"

Charlie smirks. "I still have the chance. I can leave whenever I damn well feel like it."

Bass raises an eyebrow again.

She shrugs. "Don't feel like it yet."

He rubs his temples. "So why did you stay?"

Charlie's expression grows serious. "I want to know why you took me. I want to know what you think you are going to get from all this. You said you needed answers. So do I. Maybe we can help each other out. I like to help people. Maybe I can help you."

"You can help me by getting me some whiskey."

"No. You need to dry out. I'm going to make sure you do." She points to herself. "See? Look at me, already helping you."

"You can't help me." His voice cracks, and he sucks a breath through his teeth. "There is no help for me."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I understand something about what you're going through."

His eyes blaze with fury as he leans forward and spits out, "You don't understand shit. You can't." He stands and staggers out of his chair toward the door.

"You think you have the monopoly on grief? Well, you don't. We've all lost people."

Bass clenches his fists and says nothing as he takes another unsteady step toward the hallway.

When she speaks again, he stops short. "I remember him, you know." Her voice is so quiet, it is almost a whisper.

Bass stands perfectly still but doesn't turn. "Who?"

Charlie continues. "Your son. I remember him. We met once. He kissed my cheek. He had a sweet smile."

Slowly Bass faces her, his expression blank. "You met him."

"Yeah, I did. It was a long time ago."

Bass feels lost. "That's not possible. Can't be."

"Oh, it's possible. I know about your son and I know who you are. I know who paid you to take me. I just don't understand why." Charlie shakes her head. "I don't think it's money."

"You don't know anything."

Charlie stands slowly but her gaze is hot as she slams the small piece of paper she'd found in his glove box down on the table. "I know my Mom's address, you asshole."

"It's not –"

Charlie doesn't let him finish. "I have no idea why you are working for her or what you stand to gain from all of this. I've racked my brain, and I just can't figure it out. Maybe it's about your son. Is he the one you talk to all the time?"

"What?" Bass looks shell shocked.

"You don't think I've noticed how you talk to someone who isn't there? It is Connor, isn't it? You talk to your dead son – especially when you've been drinking."

At the sound of his son's name, Bass staggers back a step as if he's been slapped. "No."

"Yeah, I think it is him. I didn't know who you were until you left me in the car at the cemetery. I mean, I knew Jasper couldn't be a coincidence, but it wasn't until I found Connor's ashes that the memories started to come back. Everything just clicked. I started to remember him from that wedding. Your wedding. And then I remembered you, too. I'm not as stupid as you think."

"Jasper? You know Jasper? You were at my wedding?"

"Yeah. That's what I've been saying. Used to spend summers here with my Grandparents. My Dad took me to your wedding. Uncle Miles was there too. I remember thinking your wife looked like a princess."

Tears are streaming down his cheeks but he doesn't notice. "She was."

"What happened?"

"Don't want to talk about that."

"I'm sorry. I really am. Whatever happened, I know it can't be easy." She trails off as a flicker of memory reminds her of her own grief.

He doesn't answer. His eyes look haunted. "Whatever. I'm going to bed."

"Wait, Bass?"

His spine stiffens. "You called me Bass?"

"It's your name, isn't it? That's what your sleazy realtor told me. He also said we need to get out of here by noon."

This seems to jar Bass out of his dark thoughts. "You met Bobby?"

"Yeah. He's a peach. Buddy of yours?"

Bass shakes his head. "We went to high school together. I think I went to his bachelor party. Not really friends though."

"Well, he wants us to leave this morning so he can show the place."

Bass suddenly feels the weight of all that's happened. His leg throbs and burns.. His head feels like it's being split into two, and his heart aches with loss and pain. He turns. "Can't go anywhere yet. Need to sleep. Call him and tell him I'm staying till I feel better."

"And what if he says no?"

"Pretty sure I still own this damn house." Bass staggers down the hall and crawls into bed, too sick to move. He's out cold before his head sinks into the pillow.

* * *

Tom Neville sits in a dingy motel room on the outskirts of Jasper. The curtains are drawn tight against the mid-morning sun. His eyes are glued to the screen of the laptop on the table in front of him. He puts out a cigarette in an overflowing soap dish that he's using as an ashtray.

The image on the screen is a candid photograph of the girl who is traveling with Monroe. He'd snapped it with his phone while she was talking to the realtor yesterday. She is beautiful and young, and Neville can't shake the feeling that she will prove to be an important part of this mission.

He lifts a cell phone from the table, hits a speed dial number and listens to the distant ring, his eyes never leaving the image of the girl on the screen.

A brisk greeting brings a nervous smile to Tom's face. "Mr. Flynn? It's Neville. Did you get the picture I sent you?"

"Yeah. What do you want with this girl, anyway?"

Neville feels an anxious tic as his right eye begins to twitch. "Just curious, sir. Saw her and she looked familiar."

"This has nothing to do with Project Sunrise?"

"No, sir." Neville's heart rate increases at the sound of uncertainty in his superior's voice. "Why?"

"Well, I'm not a big fan of coincidences, and something feels off with all of this."

"You were able to identify the girl?"

"Of course. The DOD has the highest levels of domestic security databases at our fingertips. If it happens in the continental USofA, I can find it. Identified the girl in about seven minutes using our standard face recognition software."

Tom closes his eyes and exhales slowly, thanking the gods above that Flynn's reach doesn't extend to remote desert shit holes in Afghanistan. Not yet, anyway. "Who is she, sir?"

"Her name is Charlotte Matheson. Ring any bells with you?"

Neville's earlier unease is dwarfed by the fear that grips his gut. "Matheson? As in Miles Matheson?"

"One and the same. Like I told you before, I don't believe in coincidences, so tell me again - why the hell are you sending me pictures of Miles Matheson's niece?"

* * *

The next time that Monroe opens his eyes, it is to find that the day has faded into late afternoon, and the sunlight gives the room a warm glow. He stretches slowly, taking stock. His leg still hurts and his head throbs, but generally he finds that he's feeling a little better. The full body ache is gone, and his temperature seems normal.

He stands, swaying slightly as vertigo lets him know he may not yet be fully recovered after all. "Need a drink," he mutters and heads to the kitchen slowly. He finds a Gatorade and drinks almost the whole bottle as he stands before the open refrigerator.

Bass has just closed the fridge when he hears a feminine cry followed by a loud crack of sound. The house is small and he knows the sound came from the bathroom. "Charlotte!" Something has happened to Charlotte. His instincts kick in and he rushes back down the hall with an awkward limp, and past the bedroom he'd left mere minutes before. His brain is bursting with horrible scenarios and what ifs that could exist behind the bathroom door. It is shut when he gets to it, but he doesn't hesitate before crashing through.

All thoughts fade from his consciousness when she comes into view.

"Get out!" Charlie yells from where she is sprawled naked on the floor. Her skin is damp and her hair is dripping. The humidity in the room and the fogged mirror tell Bass that she just finished a shower and her words tell him that she doesn't need his help.

Even knowing all these things, he's frozen to the spot where he stands as he takes in the view.

Charlie begins to scramble to her feet but slips again.

The trance is broken, and he reaches for her. "You okay?"

"I'm fine. The shampoo spilled and I slipped. Now, get out."

"Yeah. Okay. I'm leaving." His eyes are glued to her perfect breasts. Not too large. Not small. Round and firm with tight little nipples. Damn.

"Get the fuck out!" She yells, stepping forward and pushing him with both hands. As she does, her feet slip once more and she falls against him. Her wet skin presses flush against his chest. Only the thin tee shirt he wears separates them. He sucks in a harsh breath, feeling his cock respond to the wet, naked woman in an old familiar surge of arousal that he honestly hadn't expected to ever feel again.

Evidently there are parts of Bass Monroe that aren't ready to die just yet.

He frowns down into fathomless blue pools that look up at him with surprise. "Sorry," he says. "Heard you yell. Wanted to see if you're okay."

"I'm okay." Her voice is lower but there is still an edge to it.

Slowly, he runs his hands down her back, his calloused fingers trailing along warm, wet skin. He grasps her narrow waist firmly and pushes her gently away from him. "I'll go now."

She nods and stares after him even as the door closes softly. The image of him busting in is seared into her brain. At first he'd looked afraid and worried and ready to fight. Then his expression had changed. The eyes still burned like the blue of a flame, but what had started as fear and anger had quickly morphed into something else – something needy.

Charlie doesn't want to think about it. She doesn't want to think about him as anything other than a project. A mystery to solve. She wants to help him. She doesn't want him. Charlie shakes her head. She doesn't want to think about him that way at all. He's the only man she's seen up close in days and it's the proximity that is playing with her head. Nothing else. She certainly isn't thinking about hard his muscles are or how strong he felt when she fell against him. She doesn't want to imagine what that beard would feel like against her cheeks and neck, or lower. She can't dwell on how those rough fingers would feel between her legs. "Get a grip, Charlie."

She gingerly walks to the vanity and looks at her reflection in the mirror. She wipes a circle into the fog and makes note of her bright eyes and flushed cheeks. Her body hums with a new tension, and as the fog fades from the mirror, she takes inventory of the rest of her exposed body. Her nipples are hard. Charlie brushes her finger over one and feels a jolt of desire pulse within.

She listens for a moment but hears nothing. He's busy or has gone back to bed. This sexual tension she feels low in her belly is all consuming. It has nothing to do with HIM. Clearly it's been too long since she got laid. That's all. There is no other excuse for how turned on she suddenly is. She pinches the nipple she'd touched before and whimpers, biting her lip. She's got to take care of this if she wants to focus on anything else. She lowers her fingers to the tender pearl between her thighs and slowly begins to stroke.

She's not thinking about him as her fingers begin to move faster and her breathing becomes ragged. She's not thinking about those haunted blue eyes and his firm rough hands. She's not thinking about the way his body had felt pressed against hers or the way he'd kicked the shit out of that pervert behind the gas station like some knight in shining armor.

At least that's what she tells herself as she shudders to completion, her free hand gripping the vanity counter until her knuckles are white.

No way is she thinking about HIM.

* * *

Bass goes back to the bedroom and crawls into the bed, feeling shaken and unsure. The rush of adrenaline he'd felt when he thought she was in danger had been familiar. He'd been a soldier after all. Helping people is what he does – or used to do anyway. But the other thing – this sudden craving for her body - had been both unsettling and unexpected.

What the hell is wrong with him?

If he didn't need her to fulfill his end of the bargain with Rachel, he'd cut Charlotte loose now and save himself all the complications this new attraction will surely cause.

But he can't just let her go. Rachel will never help him if he turns up empty handed. "Fuck," he mutters, throwing an arm over his eyes. He doesn't have time for this kind of distraction.

His thoughts are fragmented and fraught with anxiety. Nothing is going right. Nothing is remotely as it was supposed to be. This whole plan (if one can even call it that) is falling apart day by day. How can he avenge his son's death when his dick has a mind of its own and he's stuck in close quarters to the reason why?

He has no idea.

The warmth of the setting sun soothes his aching body and his tired mind and soon he drifts off to sleep.

 _The spray of water is warm and the air smells like lavender. Shelly is here - sharing the narrow shower with him the way they always used to do on rushed mornings. His front is nestled closely against her back and she braces herself with palms flat on the wet tile. He smiles as he buries his face in the crook of her neck, wrapping his arms around her to cup her breasts gently as the water cascades over their bodies._

 _She moves against him, the firm globes of her ass tantalizing his dick with subtle movements._

 _He presses against her, moving one hand up over her shoulder to take a handful of tight black curls in his hand. He bites lightly on her ear, loving the way she moans at his touch._

 _Her skin is wet and warm and perfect and he marvels at all the ways she drives him crazy. He pushes a knee between her thighs and she whimpers with need._

 _He pulls back slowly, sensing something is off. Her body still moves softly against his as water courses over heated flesh, but something is not as it was. Bass watches the back of her head, reaching out and touching the familiar ebony corkscrews of hair, stroking through them with wandering, curious fingers._

 _When the change begins, Bass is aware in an odd dreamy way that he should be worried or concerned, but finds that he's not. When the tight curls loosen and lengthen into long wavy ropes that cling slickly to her toned back, stopping just short of the curve of her ass…. When the hair color fades from black to honey and when her skin likewise morphs from smooth caramel to a warm California tan… When she is suddenly shorter and leaner than he remembers his sweet Shelly ever being…_

 _When all of these things happen and he knows he's no longer showering with his wife, but instead is sharing this space with the woman who days ago had been his prisoner… When these things all become clear to Bass in the dream, he knows he should stop._

 _He should do all he can to wake up and end this._

 _He should, but h_ _e can't._

 _When dream Charlotte turns to face him, her eyes are blue like the ocean and her lips part invitingly. When he leans in to taste her desire, he's no longer thinking about dead wives and dead sons. Gone are bloody memories of war and sterile hospitals and empty whiskey bottles and tombstones. As his tongue curls around hers and he languidly explores her mouth and when her fingernails dig into the flesh of his shoulders…_

 _When all these things happen, he's not thinking about anything at all except for the way her body melts against his own and the way she grasps his neck with her arms and lifts her legs around his waist, encouraging him to enter her soft warmth…._

 _When she invites him in as if she is the home he's been searching for…_ _He knows he should stop this, but in spite of the fact that he shouldn't… In spite of the fact that even in the dream, he knows it's a bad idea… he can't say no to her._

 _He simply can't._

 _And that is why when dream Charlotte silently begs him to fill her; he does exactly as she asks._

* * *

 **A/N Thank you to each reader still hanging with me on this story. It continues to be my birthday gift to Romeokijai who is a lovely person and a true asset to the Revo fandom (and the world in general). I hope you are still enjoying this little adventure. There is definitely more coming but please be patient.**

 **Thank you to TexasRevoFan for giving this chapter a preview. I got impatient and have published before she got a chance to give some changes a read through...so if you see any errors at all, please blame only me.**

 **Lastly, if you have a moment, I'd very much love to hear what you think. -Lemon**


	6. Chapter 6: From Jasper to Oklahoma City

**From Jasper to Oklahoma City (approximately 8 hours on the road)**

Bass's forehead presses against the cool glass of his old kitchen window. The early morning is pink and gold. A soft breeze blows and birds are singing, but Bass doesn't notice any of these things. He's barely awake, having slept little the night before. The fever is gone and he's regained his strength, but he feels sluggish and drained.

He clutches his cell phone in one hand. Bass glances at it, torn between returning any of his missed calls and throwing the thing in the garbage can. He'd decided that he should check messages and had been shocked to find he had missed thirty-two calls while his phone had been off for the last six days.

His therapist (appointed by the USMC upon his retirement) had called, wondering when Bass was planning to schedule his first session. Rachel Matheson had called to check on his progress with Charlotte. His CO Jeremy Baker had called a dozen times, his voice sounding more worried with each call. Will Strausser had called asking if Bass wanted to come back to Boston and offering him a place to stay.

It was Miles Matheson's terse message that surprised him the most. They hadn't really talked since Connor's funeral, and hearing his friend's recorded voice made Bass long for the old days when life was simple and loss was unknown. _"Bass, where the hell are you? We're all worried. Jeremy says you're in trouble. Why the fuck didn't you tell me you were depressed or whatever? I can try to help. I'm not sure how. Can't believe I had to find out this shit from Baker. Damn it. I hate god dammed voice mail. Call me."_

Bass decides against throwing the phone in the garbage can, but turns the ringer off. He isn't ready to call any of these people back. Not yet.

"Fuck," he mutters, running an unsteady hand through his curls. Bass doesn't remember ever wanting a drink this badly. He should just tell Charlotte to go to hell so that he can find a bar and get tanked. He should, but she's made it clear that she'll run if he drinks, and he needs her to not run.

He hears her enter the kitchen behind him and set something down on the table, but he doesn't turn. He has been avoiding her as much as possible all morning, unsettled by his erotic dreams from the night before.

Her voice is quiet but firm. "Take off your pants."

He turns slowly, sure he's heard wrong. "Uh, what?"

Charlie stands beside the table. She nods to his thigh. "It's bleeding again. Before we get on the road, we need to patch you up."

"No."

Charlie rolls her eyes impatiently. "Just take off your pants. I have supplies, and I'll work fast."

"I can take care of myself."

"Yeah, except clearly you aren't doing it."

Bass starts to reply, but he decides against it. Instead, he reaches for the waistband of his sweats and works them down over his boxers. He glances down at the wound and is surprised to see that it looks a lot better. The edges are still uneven and the stitches aren't pretty, but the flesh is pink instead of red. She'd been right about the bleeding, though.

"Must have pulled on it while I was asleep."

"Sit down."

He gently lowers himself to a kitchen chair, watching as she moves in close and kneels at his feet. Her hair is like spun gold when the morning sunlight pours through her long curls. He closes his eyes.

"This might sting a bit," she warns.

"Just do it."

She uses a bowl of warm soapy water to clean the damaged section of his leg. She inspects the stitches, deems them acceptable before slathering on a thick layer of triple antibiotic ointment and applying a fresh white bandage. She places two extra-strength Tylenol and a fresh pair of sweatpants on the table. "Get dressed. We need to get going."

He looks at the pants. "These are mine."

"Yeah, that's why I gave them to you."

"You did laundry?"

"Yeah. I didn't want to wear filthy clothes today. Didn't figure you would either."

"Okay." He looks down at the white gauze on his leg. "Did you go shopping again? Where did you get bandages?" he asks.

"The medicine cabinet, genius. I guess you didn't clear it out when you moved."

"Oh." He nods, reminded of the day he and Connor had packed up all their things and closed up the house. He remembers a lot of laughter and good natured conversation and excitement for life's newest adventure. These memories make his heart ache, so he pushes them aside. "Maybe we should bring the first aid stuff with us?"

She pats her messenger bag. "Way ahead of ya. Come on."

They walk to the car, and Charlie tosses their bags in the trunk. She situates the tote of compact discs in the backseat, grabs out a handful and moves to the driver's side door.

He shakes his head. "You're not driving."

"Oh, but I am." She grins as she puts on her seatbelt and inserts an old Leonard Cohen CDinto the player. "You're still half asleep, and I have a map. We can switch later if you get some shut-eye."

* * *

 _Bass's dream is vivid, exploding behind his closed eyes in a kaleidoscope of desert sand and debris and screaming and chaos and blood._

 _There is a lot of blood._

 _His head thrashes from side to side as he fights against the nightmare; his subconscious urging him to wake, but his eyes remain stubbornly shut._

" _No," he mutters as he is fully enveloped by the dreamscape of this familiar and dreadful desert fire fight. He feels the brutal heat of the sun and smells the acrid stench of gunpowder in the air. Spent shells fly, and clouds of dust surround them. Gunshots boom and echo as do the cries of those hit. The sand collects in his nostrils and in the corners of his eyes, but even so, he has his bearings. He can see Connor where he is hunched behind a chunk of concrete, but neither of them can do anything other than shoot at the enemy._

 _With each shot, the dream action slows. When the bullet rips through Bass's thigh, he watches as individual drops of blood erupt like confetti from a piñata of the macabre._

 _His dream self looks up when his son approaches. They talk but the words mean nothing. Bass watches the concern in his son's eyes. He tries to warn him to duck, to turn around, anything but stand there like a fucking target, but nothing works._

 _History is repeating, and once again, Bass can't do anything to stop it._

 _The rest of it unfolds like a slow-motion home movie, but instead of blowing out birthday candles or taking his first steps, it is Connor's death that unfolds frame by frame. As Connor falls, lifeless, at his father's feet; Bass looks up, his eyes meeting those of the shooter. It nothing more than a blip in the fabric of time, but in that moment, Bass sees the man who has shot his son._

 _He grips tightly at the wound in Connor's throat, but hot red blood oozes around his fingers. Bullets zing by but Bass doesn't notice. His thoughts are focused on two things only: the broken boy in his arms, and the soldier whose bullet put him there._

"Hey."

Bass rouses slowly from the dream, his skin clammy and cold. He is disoriented and unsure of his surroundings. Reality begins to slide into focus when he sees the familiar hula girl swaying her hips on the dashboard. Bass glances over at the driver's seat. "Connor?" he says blearily, his voice a husky whisper.

Charlotte is watching him from where she sits behind the wheel. Her eyes are sad as she gently shakes her head. "I'm sorry. He's not here."

Bass feels like he's been hit by a train. His thoughts are scrambled, and his chest clenches with a pain he can't even describe. "Not here," he repeats, leaning back into the car seat. He takes several deep breaths before speaking again. "Where is here?"

"You've been asleep for a couple hours. We're coming up on Mount Vernon."

He nods and turns, staring at the passing scenery. He feels drained.

Charlotte looks worried. "You know what we need?"

"Whiskey?"

She shakes her head and smiles ruefully. "No. We need breakfast."

* * *

They pull off the interstate and find an old fifties-style diner. The faded neon sign above the entrance flashes, "EAT!" The place is bustling, truckers and travelers are scattered around on tables and against the counter along one wall. The air is filled with the smell of bacon, and the sounds of boisterous conversation and ceramic cups tinkling against saucers.

They walk inside and are led to an old red Formica table by a big window. The waitress is wearing pink polyester and a little white apron. Her nametag says that her name is Bonnie. She hands them both thick plastic covered menus and pulls a pencil from behind her ear. "Anything to drink?" She sounds tired and looks bored.

Charlie flashes the waitress a friendly smile. "Orange juice and black coffee, please."

"Okay." Bonnie swivels her gaze to Bass and her face flushes with color as she looks him up and down. She shoots him a flirty glance. "How bout you, Sugar?"

He frowns. "Just coffee."

"I'll be right back with those drinks for you in a jiffy." Bonnie walks toward the counter at the back of the diner; her walk now has a pronounced swing.

"She was totally flirting with you." Charlie is amused.

"No, she wasn't." Bass stares at the menu. "Why did you pick this place? Do you hate your arteries?"

"I'm hungry, and I like what I like. See anything on the menu that looks good?"

"No." He closes it and pushes it away. "Just the coffee."

"How long since you ate a real meal?"

"A while – Pennsylvania, I guess."

"So, coffee is obviously the best choice for you." Charlie shakes her head. Men can be such idiots.

Bonnie appears with a frosty glass of OJ and two cups of steaming coffee. "Ready to order?" she asks.

Charlie hands over her menu. "Yeah, sure. I want a Grand Slam breakfast platter, please." She looks over at Monroe. "Make that two."

Bonnie nods at Charlie and then beams at Bass. "A healthy appetite is so sexy," she purrs.

Charlie rolls her eyes. "You're gonna love me, then."

Bonnie ignores her, turning to the kitchen.

"That happen to you a lot?" Charlie sips her coffee, eyeing Bass appraisingly.

"What?"

"That waitress? Are you one of those guys who women throw themselves at all the time? No offense, but you look like shit, all tired and skinny and sad, and you're here with me. That waitress doesn't care. She's almost drooling. I'm kind of offended, to be honest. What if I was girlfriend or your wife or –"

"You talk too much." He takes a drink of coffee and stares out the window. .

Charlie closes her mouth and leans back against the vinyl seat. She watches him studiously ignore her. She wonders what her impression of him might have been if the first time they met, he'd been drinking coffee in a diner instead of asking for an apple in a homeless shelter. In the context of this place, he looks fairly normal. Tired and scruffy, yes – but clean and kind of sexy under the beard.

The waitress bustles their way, and Charlie's attention solidly shifts to twin platters piled high with steaming pancakes, sausages, bacon slices, scrambled eggs and thick toast. She slides her palms together in anticipation as Bonnie sets the enormous plates down on the table.

"Need anything else?" Her question is pointed to Bass, as is her ample cleavage.

"Nope." Charlie answers with a grin. "This is all we need."

Bonnie pauses for a moment, but when it's clear Bass won't acknowledge her, she flounces off in a flurry of swinging hips.

Charlie licks her lips as she stabs a link of sausage. Taking a bite, she closes her eyes. "Mmmmm, this is amazing."

"I'm not eating any of that." Bass says. His derisive tone belies the way he hungrily eyes her food.

"You bet your ass, you're not. This is my breakfast. When you get hungry, I'm sure that Bonnie will be happy to whip up some heart healthy oatmeal for you." She takes a big bite of pancakes, dripping with fragrant maple syrup.

Bass scowls at her. The truth is that the idea of oatmeal is suddenly about as appetizing as eating the old Formica table. "Shit."

Charlie doesn't even look up from her pancakes as she slides the second platter of food his way. He digs in, and they eat in silence for a while.

Eventually, Charlie pushes an almost empty plate to the center of the table. "Damn, that was good."

Bass agrees reluctantly. "It was okay. Still need a drink."

She pushes her half full orange juice in his direction.

"Funny," he mutters, rubbing his temples.

Charlie motions Bonnie to bring the check and then she faces Bass. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Do I have a choice?"

She shakes her head but hesitates.

"What?"

"Whose graves were you visiting back in Jasper?"

He empties his coffee cup with one last swallow and then stares into it. "No."

"No?"

"Don't want to talk about that."

"Well, if you ever want to talk about it, I'll listen. I know how much it hurts to lose someone you love"

Bass's headache intensifies. He doesn't answer.

She decides to save that topic for another day. "So, you and my mom? How did she rope you into this? You guys are friends?"

"Not even close."

"So, how do you know her?"

"Knew her through Miles." He shrugs. "Fucked her once at a party."

Charlie chokes on a sip of coffee. "So blackout drinking has been a problem for a long time?"

Bass shakes his head. "Just wanted to piss off your uncle."

"When was this?"

"Maybe fifteen years ago? She had divorced your Dad and was dating Miles. They were fighting."

"Yeah, they fought a lot. So, did it work?"

"Did what work?"

"Did you piss him off?"

"Wouldn't talk to me for two years, so yeah. I guess it did."

"Was it worth it?" She watches him carefully.

"No. Your Mom is a cold bitch."

Charlie cracks a smile. "You'll get no argument from me, but if you think she's a bitch, why the hell are you committing felonies for her?"

"She said she needed you in California. Said she's been asking you to come out and you won't," Bass answered, looking down evasively.

"That's it? She just called you up and said, hey go kidnap my daughter and bring her to me?" Disbelief was evident on Charlie's face.

"I said no at first."

"That's admirable." Charlie rolls her eyes. "What changed your mind? She offer you another roll in the hay?"

"She said she can give me some information I need."

"What kind of information?"

"Why my kid was killed. The Army claims it was an accident. Friendly fire."

"You don't believe them?"

"No, I don't."

"How can my mom help you? As far as I know, she isn't involved with the military in any way."

"She has a contact with the DOD who may be able to help."

"The Department of Defense? Are you sure? She runs a computer programming company."

"She sold some tech to the DOD and still knows someone there."

"And you trust them more than the Army?"

Bass looks up finally. His eyes are sad. "I don't trust either one of them, Charlotte. But I'm desperate. If there was even a chance your mom knows something…"

Charlie sighs. She doesn't think this will end well. "I hope you get the answers you want, but it's my experience that Rachel Matheson isn't all that trustworthy either."

* * *

Police Commissioner Malcolm Dove reads the budget proposal once more and curses 'them sons a bitches from City Counsel' to high heaven. "How the fuck am I supposed to do my job with no money?" He pulls off his reading glasses and lets them fall on top of the papers. He's looking out his office window at the cityscape of Beloit when his door opens. His second in command, Miles Matheson, walks in without preamble.

"Hey," Miles says.

"What do you want? Get anywhere with that Nunez case?"

"Yeah. Got the report right here. He's in lockup."

Dove nods and takes the folder that is offered. This is the first good news he's heard all day. He can tell that isn't why Matheson is here though. "What?" he asks.

"I need to take some time off. A week maybe?"

Dove feels his blood pressure spike. "A week off? We aren't running a hamburger stand here, Matheson. I don't have legions of idiots to do your job for you while you're out chasing tail or whatever it is you want to do."

Miles shakes his head. "A friend of mine is in trouble. Maybe big trouble. He needs help."

"And I need you here."

"Put Scanlon in my place while I'm gone. He's ready."

"That Irish kid is not ready. He's barely old enough to –"

Miles interrupts. "Let me put it this way. I finally got a GPS signal on my friend that's been missing. Jackass has had his phone off but now he's turned it on. I'm heading after him today. Either I do that knowing I have a job to come back to, or I don't come back."

Dove's temper flares, and he can feel the heat of anger staining his cheeks. "You're a piece of shit."

"Yeah. Whatever. This piece of shit needs to help a friend. You gonna okay this vacation time or not? You know I didn't use half of what I earned the last few years. You owe me."

"I don't owe you shit." Dove ponders what Matheson had said and feels his anger fading. Miles is right even if it's difficult to admit. He's a hard worker, and Dove knows replacing him would not be easy. "You did pull through with Nunez … Fine, take your damn time off."

Miles flashes what might pass for a smile. "Thanks, Sir." He turns to go, but stops when Dove calls him back. "Yeah?"

"I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear you say that you are using official police equipment to illegally track a private citizen who is not part of an ongoing investigation."

This time Matheson's face breaks into an honest to God grin. "No idea what you are talking about, Dove. See you in a week."

* * *

It's midday when Bass pulls the car into a WalMart parking lot in a small Missouri town.

"Why are we stopping here?" Charlie asks.

"Need some stuff." Is all he'll say.

He parks and they walk inside. She notices that his limp is much less pronounced as he walks past the elderly people-greeter who attempts to give him a cart. He doesn't take it, and neither does Charlie, but she does take a hand held basket instead.

She falls into step beside him, but he frowns at her in irritation. "Go get what you need. Meet me at the registers in ten."

Charlie makes a bee-line for the health and beauty department. The travel size items Monroe had gotten for her in Pennsylvania are all but gone. She needs the essentials and goes down a few rows before she finds all the things she needs. Popping open the lid on a bottle of vanilla body wash, she briefly wonders if Monroe would like vanilla. Shaking her head, she banishes that thought and puts the bottle back on the shelf. She finds a pack of razors, deodorant, shampoo and conditioner. She leaves the aisle but impulsively turns back, grabbing the bottle of vanilla body wash and not dwelling on her reason for doing so.

Once her selections are nestled inside her basket, she wanders to the grocery department where she picks up a six pack of bottled water and a Snickers bar. She turns to head toward the front of the store and runs right into another shopper. The man puts his hands on her shoulders to steady her and gives them a little squeeze. "What's your hurry?" he asks, his voice soft and smooth.

Something about this man makes Charlie feel uneasy, and she can't say exactly what it is. She guesses his age is just north of fifty. His skin is the color of warm mocha and he has dark brown eyes that search hers in a familiar and unsettling way. He tries to muster a friendly smile, but it lacks the warmth he seems to be trying for.

Charlie feels a shiver slide up her spine and she takes a step back. He lowers his hands but continues to stare. "Can I help you find anything?"

Charlie shakes her head. "No. I'm fine." She looks him up and down. He's neatly dressed in jeans and a blue dress shirt. He's wearing shiny loafers. "Do you work here?"

"No. I'm just passing through town and needed some things. How about you? Where are you headed?"

Charlie takes another step back, saying the first thing that pops into her head. "Sorry. I need to go find my boyfriend."

The man's eyes narrow. "Boyfriend?"

She doesn't answer but turns and walks away quickly, her eyes scanning the aisles for Monroe. The irony isn't lost on her. In her moment of fear, she seeks out the man who days ago had shoved her into his trunk.

* * *

Jeremy Baker grabs his duffel from the baggage claim at Chicago's O'Hare airport and winds his way through the seemingly endless corridors in search of a particular exit. He's tired after his flight and wishes he'd taken the time to change out of his fatigues, but he'd barely made the plane as it was, so his appearance will have to suffice.

He finds the door he'd been looking for and heads out into the blinding summer sun. Hurried travelers bustle past, but even with the sea of people all around him, it isn't difficult to spot his welcoming party. Miles Matheson is standing not twenty feet away. He's wearing worn jeans, an ancient Megadeath tee shirt and shades. He casually holds a handmade welcome sign that says "Jackass".

Baker grins and walks toward his old friend, slapping him on the back. "Nice sign, dick."

Miles grins. "Only the best for you." He nods toward the curb. "Let's go."

When Baker lays eyes on their ride and driver, he shakes his head. "Hell, no. I am not riding with that maniac."

Will Strausser leans casually against the door of a poison apple green 1970 GTO Judge. He grins at Jeremy and flips him the finger. "For that, you can sit in the goddamned back." Will's ragged cutoffs, half buttoned Hawaiian shirt and aviator sunglasses are classic Strausser, and so is the car. The Judge has been Strausser's baby since long before the guys had even met.

Jeremy frowns at Will. "Thought you were in Boston?"

"I was. Drove over yesterday."

"That's like a thousand miles. You drove it yesterday?"

"Took me sixteen hours. I crashed with Miles and slept for a bit. I'm good to go, Baker. Now, get in the fuckin' car."

Jeremy tosses his bag in the open trunk and makes his way to the rear passenger-side door, which Miles is helpfully holding open. Baker grumbles as he climbs into the back seat of the car, but after he spreads out a little bit, his irritation fades. "I forgot how roomy this is."

"I've always thought so," Will says.

Baker tugs a pair of black lace panties from the crevice between the seat cushions. "Clearly," he says, tossing them up front.

Will catches them one-handed and lifts them to his nose for a quick whiff. He grins and cocks his eyebrows high. "Yum."

"Glad you like it back there, Baker,." Miles says as he sits in the passenger seat. "Cause I call shotgun all the way."

Will tucks the panties into his pocket and turns to Miles, "So, when are you gonna tell us where we're headed?"

Miles slouches down in his seat and pulls a battered baseball cap low over his brow. "South. From the looks of his GPS trail, I'd guess Bass is headed to Kansas City or maybe Tulsa. Hell if I know. Fucker won't answer his phone. Just lucky he hasn't turned it back off. For now, just go south. If he changes course, so will we. Should catch him by nightfall."

"Works for me." Strausser says, reaching over for the controls on the state of the art stereo he'd installed in his classic car. After clicking a few buttons, the familiar sound of Credence fills the car. Will grins at his two passengers. "Just like old times, eh?" His smile fades as he remembers the reason for this impromptu road trip. "Well, if Bass was here..."

"Let's go find him," Miles says. "Then it will be."

Jeremy settles back in the Judge's back seat and watches as the Chicago streets sail past. He is assailed by memories of days gone by when the four of them had been inseparable.

 _Miles and Bass had known each other their whole lives but had been just as surprised as anybody when they'd both been assigned to join the same special operation for the Department of Defense. They'd been joined by Jeremy and Will, and the four had bonded quickly._

 _Their assignment from the beginning had been vague and unusual, but some of the pieces had begun to fall into place when they met Eddie. He was an Army private and a generally funny guy. He was a decent shot on the practice range but wasn't keen on going into battle. For some reason, the DOD was very insistent that this young soldier was very important. This was where his Marine babysitters came in. They were told, in no uncertain terms, that ensuring Eddie's safety was their sole mission._

 _Shortly after meeting their charge, the five soldiers had been shipped off to Kabul, Afghanistan and at first everything had been uneventful. They had been placed in a quiet area and made nice with a lot of the locals. Sometimes Jeremy, Eddie and Bass would play a pickup game of soccer with some of the Afghan kids while Miles and Will sat by the sidelines, smoking cigarettes. On their nights off, they would shoot hoops near the barracks or go to whatever show the USO might have rolling through._

 _Three months in, there had been a bad dust storm while the men were out on a routine patrol in a usually safe area. The dust had barely settled when they were surprised by an enemy ambush. Four Taliban fighters had rushed them, wielding swords and AK-57s. Jeremy and Miles took care of two of their attackers, and got flesh wounds for their trouble. Will and Bass finished off the others before turning to give Eddie the all clear. The whole event had taken less than one minute._

" _And the Grim Reaper misses us again." Will said with a smirk, wiping dust from his brow._

" _They never should have gotten that close. That damn sand storm gave them cover. We got lucky."_

 _Miles shook his head. "Fuck that. No luck. We're just that good."_

 _Eddie had grinned at his protectors. "You guys are amazing. You were so fast and graceful. Sometimes it looked like you were dancing when you were fighting. Just like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire," he had teased as he began to run ahead of the others. In a jovial spirit, Eddie began to dance in exaggerated circles._

" _Watch where you're going, Dipshit," Miles had warned with a laugh as Eddie swirled toward the corner of an old building. Eddie ignored Miles, spinning awkwardly in his full gear, lost in his own joke. He'd been laughing, his eyes full of mischief, as he rounded the corner and disappeared._

 _Later, the guys figured he was still laughing when he stepped on the landmine that ended his life._

 _At the sound of the detonation, the four Marines rounded the corner swiftly with weapons drawn. They had hoped to help, but Eddie was clearly beyond saving when they found him._

" _God damnit!" Miles growled._

" _Ah fuck," Bass had muttered, running his hand across his mouth._

 _After several stunned seconds, the men sprang into action. Miles and Bass got to work clearing the area, on the lookout for a potential ambush. Jeremy stepped aside to call their CO and Strausser just watched him. When Jeremy disconnected the call, Strausser shook his head. "We only had one job. Keep this douche safe. Jesus. We're so fucked, we'll be lucky to get a court martial –"_

 _Jeremy turned to Will. "Just shut up. We're gonna tell the truth. This was nobody's fault but his own."_

 _Bass and Miles had just come back around in time to hear Jeremy's words. "Not sure that will work when the DOD finds out their golden boy died on our watch. I think heads will roll, starting with ours," Bass predicted._

 _In the months that followed, the expected fall out didn't happen. The foursome had attended a memorial but had heard nothing at all from the DOD. New orders had been sent down from the usual channels, and life went back to normal, or at least as normal as could be expected. Yes, their little task force had been disbanded, but there had been no investigation. No hearings. Miles was the first to suggest something wasn't right. "Why did they want us to watch an Army Private in the first place? Why was he so damn precious? And why the hell did they ignore the fact that we totally failed our assignment?"_

 _They never did get an answer to that question. In the months that followed, Miles had retired and taken a job with the Beloit police department. Will had followed his friend out of the service, working as an independent contractor for a big security firm. Baker was promoted. Bass took a teaching job at a base in the states where he could spend more time with Connor, only choosing to accept another tour years later when his own son was deployed._

Even though a decade has passed since the incident, the four friends often think about Private Edward Flynn, even if they don't speak about him much.

* * *

It is late afternoon when Bass glances down at the gas gauge and sees it's time to fill the tank again. "Gonna stop. Need anything?" They've been driving for hours with only the music from Connor's seemingly endless compact disc collection as company.

The Steve Miller Band is playing at the moment. Charlie leans over and turns down the volume. "I need to pee, and we should find some dinner."

Bass exits the interstate and finds a small town that sits on the edge of a tree lined lake. It's a quiet little village and as they drive down the main street, it's clear that not much is available. "We can find a bigger town," he says. "Maybe a McDonald's."

Charlie shakes her head, her gaze trained on the sparkling blue water of the lake. "No. Let's just get some sandwiches at that gas station. We can eat over there." She points to a park on the water's edge where a dozen picnic tables are scattered.

He pulls the car into a convenience store parking lot and parks next to the pumps. They refuel, take a bathroom break, buy a bag of food and are across the street by the lake within minutes.

Charlie plops down on the top of a picnic table and opens the brown paper bag. She pulls out a plastic wrapped deli sandwich and an apple. He sits down on the same table and opens a granola bar. They eat in a comfortable silence as they watch the water. The breeze is cool and the late afternoon sunshine sparkles on the gentle ripples of the water's surface.

"I like this," Charlie says. "It is so peaceful here."

He doesn't say anything, his gaze trained on the water.

"So, have you changed your mind?" She asks.

"About what?"

"Killing yourself." Charlie doesn't look at him. Instead, she watches a pair of ducks floating on the water.

"What are you talking about?"

"Play dumb all you want. I'm not an idiot. After you get your answers, you're going to end it all."

He narrows his eyes as he faces her. "Even if you're right, why do you care?"

"Because life is precious, and if you don't think you have something to live for, you aren't thinking about it enough."

He grunts out something unintelligible and turns to face the water again.

"I bet Connor wouldn't want you to kill yourself. Most kids love their parents and would never want them to die. I'd give anything to have my dad back, or Maggie."

"Seems like you hate your mom."

"Good point. I still don't want her to die."

"Well, Connor is gone, so it doesn't matter what he would have wanted."

"I bet there are other people who want you to stick around. Family? Friends?"

"You asked who I was visiting in that cemetery? My parents are buried there."

"I'm sorry." Charlie said.

"Both of my sisters are there too."

Charlie's mind goes to Danny and she bites her lip. "That is awful."

He ignores her. "And my wife and our baby."

"Damn," she mutters, her face going pale.

"Yeah, so when you asked who I was visiting, the answer is everybody." His voice is lower than usual and when Charlie glances his way, she sees that his eyes are wet. "No offense, Charlotte, but I know exactly how precious life is."

Charlie tentatively reaches out and puts a hand on his forearm. She only means it to be a comforting gesture, but Monroe jumps and stumbles from his perch on the table's edge. He cries out as the sudden movement pulls the stitches in his leg. Charlie moves in, wanting to help, but he pushes her away. Monroe is shaky as he stands and begins to gather their trash. He won't look at her as he tosses the apple cores and various food wrappers in a nearby garbage barrel. When he's done, he trudges back toward the car, limping slightly.

Charlie's heart is heavy as she follows him back to the car. She wonders if there is anything she can do to help him or if maybe Monroe is truly a lost cause. Back on the road, the travelers are silent, each lost in their own troubled thoughts.

The sun sets slowly over the gentle waves of the small lake they've left behind, its golden rays reflecting softly off the glass screen of a cell phone that now lies where it had fallen under the picnic table.

* * *

 **A/N: This continues to be a birthday fic for my very patient friend Romeo. I hope you are enjoying this story. It's been a lot of fun to write so far. A huge thank you to WildIrish who keeps bugging me for updates and to TexasRevoFan for beta badassery! Thanks a ton. You rock. Leave a comment if you have a moment.**

 **PS The smut is coming sooner rather than later...for anyone wondering. :)**


	7. Chapter 7: Oklahoma City

**Oklahoma City, Oklahoma**

The dim hotel room isn't much different than any other. Bass sits in the lone chair by the window, watching the lights of passing traffic. The large AC unit below the window chugs and whines in its attempt to cool the room. Mostly it just spits out stale air that smells a lot like an old basement.

Charlotte is asleep, sprawled across the center of the paisley cover on the king size bed. Record attendance at a sales conference had limited the number of rooms available in Oklahoma City and they'd been lucky to find this one. Bass wants to sleep. Needs to sleep. He can't. Every time he drifts off, he is jerked awake by images of Connor and that bloody desert.

His eyes burn with exhaustion as he watches Charlotte doze. He envies the way she can rest so fully, as if she doesn't have a care in the world. Only a bottle of booze will get him where she is. He curses under his breath at that particular thought. She has told him she'll leave if he gets drunk again and if she leaves, he'll never get the answers he needs. Feeling defeated, he leans back in the chair and closes his eyes.

In less than a minute his eyes are wide open again, and his mind is filled with images from a particularly disturbing dream. Vivid dreams are nothing new, but this one hadn't been about blood and loss and Connor's death. Instead, his sleeping mind had lured his dream self into that king size bed. Charlotte had been awake and naked and very enthusiastic...

"Shit," he mutters, running a hand uneasily through his curls. An erotic dream about her is almost as unnerving as the other darker dreams had been, although in a very different way. Regardless, he needs to do something to shake himself away from that particular line of thought.

The answer is simple. No matter what Charlotte plans to do, Bass needs a drink. He needs it now. Decision made, he stands and finds his duffel in the small closet. He fishes out one of the two emergency bottles of whiskey he had purchased at Wal Mart after leaving Jasper.

He unscrews the cap and takes a long, satisfying drink. As the welcome warmth of the whiskey slides down his throat, he sighs contentedly. This is what he had wanted and needed. He takes another drink and then looks over at Charlotte once more. The room is shadowy, but he can make out her form, lying prone on the bed. He takes another sip, hoping she'll sleep till morning. Bass allows his gaze to trail down the luscious lines of her body. His mind is once again filled with images from his dream.

Bass shakes his head. The booze isn't even going to help unless he can get some space. Maybe taking a walk will help him focus.

He lets himself out of the room silently, pocketing his key card before making his way out into the humid summer night. The air is sticky and still. He picks a direction randomly and begins to walk. Headlights and the whoosh of passing traffic are his only company. Now and then, he takes a drink from the bottle. With each swallow of the warm amber liquid, calmness begins to settle into his bones.

Half the bottle is gone when he sees a sign that says the Oklahoma City bombing memorial lies just a few blocks ahead. Coming to a stop, he decides to change direction. He has enough darkness swirling in his soul and isn't sure he can take more reminders of grief right now.

Bass has turned onto a street that is lined with dark office buildings. A few pedestrians can be seen here and there, but generally the road is a quiet one. He passes a couple college girls giggling into their phones. He guesses they are the same age as Charlotte, but nothing at all like her. He tries to imagine her giggling over anything at all, and can't.

Moments later, he sees a homeless man sitting in a doorway. The man's eyes are downcast as he holds out an empty cup, shaking a few coins inside. Bass feels in his pockets but other than the hotel key card and the credit card he'd grabbed just in case, they are empty. He looks at the bottle in his hand which is also almost empty, but it's all he has to offer. He hands the bottle to the man who flashes him a toothless grin of thanks as he takes it.

It doesn't take Bass long to find a liquor store that is open so that he can replace his old bottle with a new one. He goes inside and buys a fifth of Jack Daniels, which the bored cashier hands to him wrapped in a brown paper bag.

Bass is back on the street, sipping from his whiskey and walking aimlessly when someone falls into step at his side. He glances at his visitor and the corners of his mouth tilt up in a small smile. "Connor."

Connor looks as alive as he ever had, wearing an old tee shirt and faded jeans. His hands are jammed into his pockets and his curls shift limply in the humid breeze. "Hey, Dad."

Bass stops to face his son. "So, she was right. You only show up when I'm drinking."

Connor shrugs. "Just seemed like maybe you needed me."

"I wasn't complaining. I always need you. Miss you."

"I know."

Connor begins to walk and Bass walks with him. They don't speak for a while. Eventually, Connor breaks the silence. "You aren't limping as much."

Bass glances down at his leg, surprised to realize that Connor is right. "Yeah, I guess it feels better. Charlotte helped me with some medicine… " His voice trails off as his thoughts turn to her.

* * *

Charlie opens her eyes, and she knows without checking that she is alone in the hotel room. She sits up slowly looks around the room, searching for evidence that she's wrong. "Nothing to see here, Charlie," she mutters with a frustrated sigh.

She stands and walks to the window, pulling aside the curtains and looking out on the dark night. She can see the Cutlass parked in the spot where they'd left it, so wherever he is – he's on foot.

Charlie walks over to the bed and flops down on her back. Where did he go? Why did he go? Is he coming back? Is he still alive? She had been so sure he was doing better, but what if that wasn't true? What if he decided not to wait for answers from Charlie's mom? What if he gave up and he's lying dead in an alley right now? And why does she even care?

Except, for some unknown and incomprehensible reason, it seems that she does care.

Restless and frustrated, she stands again and begins to pace, but wearing a path in the faded hotel carpet isn't helping. Her brain is working in overdrive – thoughts pinging around almost faster than she can process them. What if he is dead? Will she even know? It's not like anyone would know to come here and tell her. If he had decided to kill himself, what would his plan be? Would he jump in front of a bus? Off a building? She can't remember where he put the gun. The car, maybe? His bag?

Charlie swivels toward the corner where his duffel bag sits. She drops to her knees and begins to dig through the sparse contents. A few tee shirts and some jeans, some toiletry items, a few pairs of boxers. There is no gun, but underneath the clothing, she finds an a scuffed (empty) flask, an old cigar box and something hard wrapped in a plastic shopping bag. She looks inside the plastic bag first and finds a bottle of Jack Daniels. She sets the bottle aside and turns her attention to the old cigar box. Inside she finds an assortment of well read post cards. She uses a sliver of light from the streetlamp outside to read a few of them. They are all written to Bass from Connor. Each message is filled with humor and love and evidence that these two men were more than family. They were friends as well.

Under the postcards, she finds a few candid snapshots wrapped with a blue ribbon. Most show a man who she assumes is Connor. She sees him leaning against the very car she's been riding in this week. Another picture shows him in Army fatigues. A third shows Connor wearing an old baseball cap on his head and with a half smoked cigarette between his lips. He looks mildly annoyed in that one, as is further evidenced by the bird he's flashing the camera.

The final picture in the little pile shows the two of them together. They are dressed casually, sitting at a round table in a bar. Bottles of beer sit on the tabletop between them. They are both smiling at the camera – big, warm, genuine smiles.

Charlie bites her lip as she stares at the image of this other, less broken version of Bass. She glances at the time stamp. The picture is a year old. What a difference a year can make. In the image, Connor is alive and happy. Bass is clean shaven and his eyes are shining brightly. His curls are cropped short and his skin is tan. His body looks lithe and muscular instead of gaunt. He looks healthy – not just on the outside, but the inside as well.

She sets the photos aside with the post cards. The next thing in the cigar box is a worn leather wallet.

She picks up the wallet, surprised to see her fingers trembling as she opens it up. Bass's driver's license is the first thing she sees. She notes that his last address was in Pennsylvania and his real name is Sebastian. Charlie wrinkles her nose with distaste. No wonder he goes by Bass. His birthday makes him almost twenty-five years her senior. She supposes that's not a big surprise. She finds a debit card and a few credit cards. He has military ID and an old library card. That library card makes her smile.

In a narrow pocket, she finds a plastic book style photo holder. Charlie pulls it out and stares at the image on top. This is the Connor she remembers, and based on the fact that the little boy in the picture is wearing a bow tie, it may actually have been taken on the same day she had met him all those years ago. She flips the page and looks at the next photo in the tiny booklet. This is a wedding photo of Bass and his wife. Charlie traces a finger along Bass's chin. He's staring down at his bride with such adoration that her heart aches for him. She turns the page and the next photo is grainy and creased. She squints, but it takes her a moment to make out that it is an ultrasound picture of an unborn baby. In the corner of the image are the words "Baby Monroe" in tiny white text.

Charlie closes her eyes but feels tears squeezing through her lashes anyway. She flips quickly through the rest of the pictures: an older couple on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary cutting a big cake, a family photo showing a younger version of the same couple with three blond children on their laps – two girls and a boy. The boy is clearly trying to hold in a giggle. He is also clearly Bass. Behind those photos, she finds a senior portrait of Connor's and his official Army portrait as well. The final picture in the little photo wallet is an old one of Bass and three other men. They are all wearing the fatigues used in desert operations. They are all grinning at the camera. She immediately recognizes Bass, and the man standing next to him is immediately recognizable as well. She'd know her uncle Miles's smirk anywhere.

She carefully puts all of the items back into the cigar box and places it back in the duffel. She keeps the bottle of whiskey, turning it gently in her fingers. Charlie isn't a big drinker but the liquor tempts her. She promises herself that she'll only take a drink if he's not back in fifteen minutes.

Charlie only waits five before unscrewing the lid.

* * *

"She's getting under your skin, isn't she?" Connor asks his father. They've been wandering along the dark streets in silence for a while.

"No, she's not."

"I think you like her. If you let her, I think she could help you, and I don't just mean with first aid."

"Don't want her help."

"Not sure you get a say. You are already better. Can't you see it? Just being around her is changing your outlook."

"No. It's not." He holds up the bottle as evidence that he's just as fucked up as ever.

Connor chuckles. "I'm not saying she's turned you into a Mormon. I'm saying she's helping you. I think that in her own way, she cares. She doesn't want you to kill yourself."

"Not up to her, is it?"

"Dad, nobody wants you to kill yourself. Nobody."

"I do."

Connor lays a hand on Bass's arm. "That's the thing. I don't think you still want that at all, and I think it's because of her."

Bass shakes his head as his throat tightens and tears well. Connor's touch feels so real that Bass can barely focus on the conversation. "Need her mom's help. Charlotte is a means to an end. That's all."

"Bullshit. You can't lie to me, remember? I'm inside your head and I know she's not just some girl anymore. She's special."

Bass thinks about Charlie, asleep and alone in their hotel room. He takes another drink from the bottle nestled in the brown paper bag and glances around. For the first time, he starts to think about just how far from the hotel he's wandered. "Should head back. She was asleep when I left, but…" He shrugs.

Connor smirks, but doesn't say anything as he follows his dad's lead.

"Ah hell, maybe you're right." Bass stares at his walking feet as he speaks.

"Probably, yeah." Connor chuckles. "About what specifically?"

"She's not just a means to an end. She's – " he falters. "Something more, I guess."

"Finally!" Connor punches the air in exaggerated victory. "Took you long enough to admit it."

"Doesn't change anything, Connor. Doesn't even mean anything."

Connor's smile fades. "Yeah, it does."

They walk quietly along the dimly lit streets. The hotel is still a few blocks away when Bass sighs. "This feels like a goodbye. Is it goodbye?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

Bass takes another drink, watching his son warily. "I want to be with you. I want to be where you are."

"No. You really don't. You want to be here. You need her, and I think maybe she needs you."

"Bullshit." Bass closes his eyes tight. He is angry and frustrated and drunk. Thoughts swirl in his mind like a slide show: Connor's death… that awful VA hospital and the farce of a military investigation… the kidnapping back in Boston… that lunatic who had wanted to hurt her behind that gas station, the house in Jasper and how she'd stayed to take care of him when she could have run...

The fact that she still hasn't run….

When he begins to think of their current situation, he is overcome by a feeling of unease. He hadn't left a note. What if she woke up and is worried? He tries to brush those thoughts aside. She's fine. He's sure of it. "You're wrong. She doesn't need me."

There is no response, and when Bass looks over, the image of Connor is gone. He stares at the half-empty bottle in his hands and chucks it into a nearby trash barrel. His thoughts are dark and his mood even darker as he buries his hands in his pockets and heads back to the hotel.

* * *

Randall Flynn sits in a dimly lit office. At his back is a large window with a view of the Washington DC skyline. The White House is visible in the distance, illuminated like a beacon. He doesn't notice the iconic view, staring instead at the framed photo clutched in his hands. The young man in the picture has black hair and shining green eyes and wears an Army dress uniform. He stands in front of an American flag, and he's smiling at the camera, seemingly unfazed by the uncertainty of his profession.

Flynn lovingly traces the strong chin in the image with a fingertip. "Eddie."

He can't believe it's been ten years since he'd answered that fateful knock on his door. Ten years since his wife had gone into hysterics. Ten years since he'd grieved both the death of his only son and the death of his master plan as well. By then, it wasn't solely his plan anymore of course. It had been adopted by the Patriot Counsel years earlier. No matter. The loss – both personal and professional – had been acute.

Publicly, he had grieved at his son's gravesite. Privately, he'd met with members of the Counsel who shared his fear that years of planning had died with the boy in the coffin.

Those years of planning had started innocently enough when a group of government officials - all devastated and disheartened by the tragedy of 9/11 – had begun to meet in secret. They called themselves "Patriots," but their gatherings took a few years to evolve into the secret society they would eventually become. Flynn had been a charter member of the group and had helped to recruit men and women from all branches of the American military and the intelligence community to join. By the time Project Sunrise has launched, the "Patriots" numbered in the hundreds and included four senators, two Supreme Court Justices and the Vice President of the United States.

In the beginning, the Patriot Counsel had been directionless. They wanted change, but weren't in agreement on how to initiate it. A solution was needed, but seemed out of reach. Then on a fateful night nearly three years after the towers had fallen, Randall Flynn had an idea that could change the landscape of American politics for generations to come.

 _Flynn sat across the aisle from fellow council member Senator Jack Davis. "Did you ever read the Manchurian Candidate?"_

" _In college, I guess. Why?" Davis looked bored. "You want to create a sleeper agent who will assassinate the president?"_

" _Sleeper agent, yes. Assassin, no." Flynn had leaned back and smiled humorlessly. "Doesn't the idea of shaping someone to be who you want them to be strike you as appealing?"_

" _Well yes, I guess so." Davis narrowed his eyes, suddenly interested. "What do you have in mind?"_

" _Forget assassination as a way to manage governmental leadership. What if we created the perfect president ourselves? Start with an impressionable child and give him our ideals and goals and shape him to be the leader we want? The leader we need?"_

" _You're talking about brainwashing some kid to someday lead the free world?"_

" _Brainwashing is such an archaic term." Flynn shook his head. "No, I think we would call it reprogramming. We plant our ideology in his head. We send him to the right schools so that the educated voters will like him. We sign him up in the military which gives us the military vote. We could figure out the details later but you get the idea." His smile grew as he thought of his own son who was in seventh grade and had been spending far too much time with a crowd of unworthy boys. If anyone was in need of a little reprogramming, it was Eddie. "And I think I know just the right boy for the task."_

" _What you're talking about would take forever. Why not just pick one of us. Hell, I'll do it. No brainwashing required."_

 _Flynn shook his head. "No. We need a fresh face. An unknown. We need an all-American kid who has no skeletons in his closet and is still young enough to make a real impact in the long-run."_

" _You're right. That does count all of us out." Davis took another drink. "So who do you have in mind to be this chosen one?"_

 _Flynn grinned then, his eyes sparkling. "Chosen one. I like that. And since you ask, his name is Edward. We call him Eddie. He's thirteen."_

Randall Flynn lovingly sets the photo back on his desk and sighs. The memories never leave him, even after all these years. Sometimes he wonders what might have happened if he'd just left things alone. He wonders if his son would be alive if…

Randall frowns. Too many ifs.

He turns on his computer and opens a file. The new boy is no Eddie, but he'll do. Flynn's jaw tightens as he stares at a photo on his screen and into the eyes of the second 'Chosen One'. This young man is not only Eddie's replacement. He is also the Patriot Counsel's last chance to shape the American government from the ground up. They don't have the time to start over again and would be hard pressed to find another perfect subject even if they did.

This new boy is everything they want, although Flynn supposes it's high time he stops thinking of him as a boy. Yes, he'd been one when he was first selected, but that had been a few years after Eddie's death. The new chosen one is a man now. He is strong, bold and smart. He has flaws, but has been resilient so far. There had been that mess in Afghanistan, but the dust has settled and now the coast is clear for the Patriot plan to finally fall into place.

Flynn tries to imagine this boy in another ten years when he'll be old enough to run for President. By then, he'll be a respected veteran with a law degree and at least one term as a US Representative. At that point, the future is wide open for this next chapter in the Patriot Counsel's playbook. Randall Flynn smiles sadly. Flynn hopes for the sake of the nation that this second 'Chosen One' will succeed.

He looks at the face on his computer screen once more. If all goes well, this is a face which will someday be known and beloved on all corners of the Earth. He will lead the U.S., and if the Patriot counsel has its way, eventually the entire world.

Flynn smiles humorlessly at the image of Army Private Jason Neville. "You are no Eddie Flynn, but I suppose you'll do."

* * *

The night is full and dark as the GTO Judge pulls into the small lake side town of Chandler, Oklahoma just before midnight. Jeremy Baker is asleep in the backseat. Miles is staring at a small black tablet in his lap. A soft red dot blinks steadily. Without looking up, he says, "Go ahead and park. We're close."

Strausser eases his beloved car into a space in a lot that borders a small park. They get out and Will pulls two flashlights from the trunk. He hands one to Miles, and the two men head toward the water which is where Miles's police issue GPS tracker indicates Bass should be. They don't bother waking Jeremy.

They get to the lake's edge. The air is filled with the sounds of crickets and the water is still. The picnic area is deserted.

"Maybe your beeper thing is wrong?" Will suggests.

Miles scowls down at the device in his hand. "It's not the machine. The signal is solid." The soft beeping becomes more urgent as they approach one of the picnic tables. The beep changes into a long unbroken tone and Miles comes to a stop, shining his light around the dirt under the table he's standing next to.

He finds the phone easily. "God damnit. We were so close."

"What now?" Strausser asks.

Miles scowls as he pockets the phone. "Let's look around and see if we can find anything else."

"What? You think he dropped a road map with a big red 'X' marking his destination? This isn't Scooby Doo, Miles. Let's go."

Miles turns and advances on Will. "Go where, exactly? Where the fuck do we look now? He's in trouble, and we don't know where he is or where he's headed."

"Hey, don't yell at me. I'm worried just like you are. Freaking out will get us nowhere and you know it."

The GPS is still beeping, and Miles throws it against the picnic table. There is a pathetic crunching noise followed by silence. Miles stares down at the broken device. "Fuck!"

"That was helpful," Will drawls.

"Don't start, Strausser. Come on. Let's wake Jeremy up. We need to come up with a plan."

* * *

When Bass gets back to the hotel and lets himself in, hours have passed and the room is very dark. He closes the door behind him quietly, hoping not to wake her. He toes off his boots and pulls off his shirt, throwing it on top of his duffel.

Wearing only jeans, he heads toward the bed. He considers sleeping on the floor for a moment, but tosses the thought quickly. It's a big bed and his body yearns for sleep. He sits on the bed's edge and glances up when her voice breaks the silence.

"So, you aren't dead."

He can tell by her tone that she's drunk and agitated. He flips on the bedside lamp, and sees that she's sitting on the floor in a corner, cradling his other bottle of Jack – the one he'd left hidden in his bag. Bass frowns at the bottle, which is three quarters empty. "Thought you didn't drink?"

"Don't usually."

"Why tonight?" He stands and walks closer, worried, even though he tells himself he shouldn't be.

"Thought you left."

"Just went for a walk."

"Thought you left and weren't coming back. Everyone leaves me and doesn't come back." Her glare is defiant.

He takes the bottle from her and screws the lid back on. "I came back."

She stands and faces him. She's wearing only panties and a tank top and the view isn't lost on Bass. He swallows hard, and tries to focus on her words when she speaks. "Yeah, you came back, but you're drunk. You know you shouldn't drink. I thought we had a deal."

Bass cocks an eyebrow. "Says the girl who stole my booze and drank almost all of it."

She shrugs. "I was pissed. Thought you left, but then I found your bag. Looked inside and found the bottle. I wasn't going to drink, but you were gone a long time."

"And that pissed you off."

"Yeah, I guess so." She walks to the window and looks out. "It doesn't matter. Thought maybe I could help you, but who was I kidding? I sat here drinking for a long time, and I realized something."

"What?"

"I'm in no shape to help anybody." She sounds moody and morose.

"You really don't handle liquor very well, do you? I can see why you don't usually drink."

She ignores him as she continues. "Not sure how much time I should waste on you. You're a crazy mess, but you don't want my help and besides – you are temporary. We both know you'll leave me too."

He throws his hands up in the air. "What does that even mean? This was always going to be temporary. I'll take you to your mom and she will give me what I want and then you won't see me again." He can see her jaw tightening. "Everything is temporary, Charlotte. Life itself is temporary." His words fade as he watches the glow of the lamp light reflect off her golden skin.

Seemingly unaware of his wandering thoughts, she tightens her hands into fists and advances on him. "Why do you call me that? Nobody calls me Charlotte."

He looks at her blankly. "Charlotte? Isn't that your name?"

"Yes, it's my name, but nobody calls me that. It's Charlie. Just call me Charlie."

He pauses, watching her carefully. "Sorry, Charlie."

"You think this is funny?"

"No. I think you're drunk and I think your shitty attitude is killing my buzz."

Her entire body tenses and her eyes narrow. "I hate you."

"You should."

Charlie loses it then, charging him and slamming her fists against his chest repeatedly. "Why are you like this? Why are you driving me crazy?"

"I told you. I just want answers, and your Mom has them."

"Don't want to talk about her."

"So, what do you want to talk about? What do you want from me?" Bass feels anger glowing dully in his gut. He has enough on his mind without her yelling at him.

She brushes tears from her cheeks and meets his gaze, her expression is one of stubborn resolve. He's not sure what's going on in her head, but it looks like she's made some sort of decision. She moves in closer, and he feels his anger evolve into something else entirely.

Even the faint glow of the lamplight can't dim the brilliant blue of her eyes as she looks up at him. He watches her – the way her hair falls in long curls around her shoulders, the way her skin glows gold in the low light, the way she bites her lip, deep in thought….

Bass lets out a low sigh as one thought pushes all others away. Charlie is beautiful. He's known this all along, of course, but now he can focus on nothing but her beauty and her strength, and the way her breasts press against the thin tank top. He draws his gaze back to her face once more. Even when she's drunk and angry, she is still breathtaking. Bass frowns down at her, but doesn't move away when she steps closer.

Charlie lays her hand flat against his bare chest and stares at her fingers as she speaks. Her words are soft and very low. "I want to help you. I want to make things better. I want –"

"What?"

"I want to forget, and I want to help you forget too."

The reality of what she seems to be hinting at hits him full force. They are half naked, more than a little drunk and a lot sad. They are alone in a dark hotel room that boasts only one bed. The single bed hadn't seemed like an issue at check in. After all, they had shared a bed in Jasper. Nothing happened there. But in Jasper there hadn't been this underlying pull that is suddenly undeniable.

Her gaze lowers from his eyes to his mouth and she licks her lips. She's not pounding on his chest anymore, but where her hands rest against his bare flesh, he feels a surge of sensation. Her anger has faded and the sudden stillness in the room is almost suffocating. He takes a half step back and she lets her arms fall.

"Forget what?" he finally asks, surprised that his voice sounds even a little bit normal when on the inside, his sudden need for her rages hotly.

"All of it."

"You can't just forget everything. Believe me." He runs a hand through his curls.

"But I can try." She takes a step forward, erasing the space he had created. "Help me forget."

"You're drunk."

"So are you."

"Whatever you're thinking - it's not a good idea."

"I think you know what I'm thinking, and it's not a bad idea."

"Charlotte," he warns. At the way her gaze goes stormy and dark, he remembers what she'd said before and corrects himself. "Charlie."

"Yeah?"

"You don't want me. You're right. I am temporary. I have nothing to offer you. I'm old and tired and in no condition to give you what you want, or anything at all. You can do better. You should do better."

"Maybe I don't want better.." She lifts her fingers to his face, stroking softly against his cheekbone and running her fingers down through his beard. Her heated gaze never leaves his. He feels his cock grow heavy with need.

"I know you want to say yes." She presses her palm flat over his chest again. "Your heart is pounding." Slowly she slides her hand down, her touch like velvet on silk. "You want this. You want me." As she strokes her hand over the growing bulge in his jeans, he shudders. "Let's forget together."

He does want her – supposes he has for a while, but probably not the way she wants him to. She's young and idealistic. She sees the best in people, even when there is nothing good to see. He stills her wandering hand and warns her, "You want some goddamned fairy tale where you fix me and we walk off into the sunset, holding hands? Cause that isn't going to happen. It's not even a faint possibility."

"Never said I wanted to walk off into the sunset."

"What do you want then? I kidnapped you. Do you know how wrong it would be for us to… for us to do anything like that at all?"

"So, _now_ you grow a moral compass? I'm not your prisoner, Monroe. Haven't been for a while if you haven't noticed."

He hesitates. "I noticed."

"I had a lot of chances to get away. I didn't run."

"Why didn't you?"

"I just didn't want to. Couldn't. I'm here because I want to be here."

"Yeah, but –"

"No but. This is what I want. What we both want." She unbuttons his jeans slowly.

Bass realizes he's not even a little interested in fighting this anymore. He wants to feel her body wrapped around his. He wants to bury his cock in her heat and yes, he wants to forget, even if it's just for a little while. Tentatively, he reaches out and strokes his thumb along her collarbone. "If I say yes –"

"You're saying yes." She smiles and it's a smile that stretches across her face and makes his heartbeat stutter into yet a higher gear.

"If I say yes," he repeats. "I just want you to understand upfront that this isn't gonna be some Harlequin romance happily ever after bullshit."

Her smile fades, but she nods. "I'm okay with that."

"You're sure?" He isn't really waiting for a reply, but feels the question needs to be asked. He runs his palms across her shoulders and down her arms. He feels her shuddery intake of breath.

"Yeah. I'm sure." She leans in and goes to her tiptoes, pressing her mouth softly against his.

It is the softness of the kiss that gets him, that makes his mind wander to the words he'd heard from Connor earlier. He brushes those thoughts aside, knowing there is no hope in them. This isn't about her saving him or him saving her. This isn't about emotions. Like he'd told her; they have no future.

This is just fucking, he reminds himself.

But when Charlie kisses him gently and he feels her body, warm and pliant, in his arms, he can't focus because it doesn't feel like just fucking. It almost feels like more, but it can't ever be more, so he distances himself emotionally. He deepens the kiss, roughly responding to her softness. She doesn't seem to mind, exploring his bared flesh with her hands, stroking her fingernails lightly up and down his back.

Bass doesn't stop kissing her, but he does back her toward the bed. When her legs bump against the mattress, he pushes her onto it. Charlie falls back on her elbows, her eyes wide, her chest heaving.

He steps closer and reaches for his zipper. Slowly, he eases it down over the bulge of his hardening cock. Charlie scoots to the edge of the bed and reaches out to help him. "Careful with your leg," she says. She grasps the waistband of his jeans and edges them down slowly. The bandage on his thigh hasn't shifted and no blood has seeped through. "It's looking better," she says as she tenderly runs her fingers down the sides of his legs.

Bass steps out of his jeans and hesitates, still unsure if this is really what she wants. When her eyes trail lazily over tented boxers and up over his flat stomach and muscled abs, he can see the raw desire in her gaze. Yeah, she still wants this.

Charlie reaches for his boxers and eases them down without breaking eye contact. When the cotton shorts have been tossed aside, she wraps a hand around his cock, testing the width and length of it. She smiles in approval before leaning in and using her tongue to lap up a drop of pre-cum that has collected on the tip.

He bites his lip and closes his eyes as she begins to swirl her tongue around the flared head of his cock. Bass groans as Charlie takes his length into her perfectly hot mouth. When she takes him in deep, he opens his eyes and watches. He can't help but push his fingers into her hair as she licks and sucks his throbbing penis.

Bass massages her scalp, occasionally thrusting deeper into her throat. She doesn't object, letting him slide in as far as he can go. It is only when he notices her eyes watering that he pulls away, guiltily. She releases his cock and leans back, waiting for him to make the next move.

He leans in and pushes gently against her shoulders. Charlie takes the hint, falling onto her back with her hair spreading out around her head. Leaning down, he kisses her deeply, tasting himself on her tongue. Bass moves away from her mouth, ignoring Charlie's little moan of complaint. He nips little biting kisses along her jaw and down along her collarbone. He slides one hand under her tank, stroking the swell of her breast before gently tweaking the nipple there. Bass rakes his teeth down her chest, finding the nipple he'd teased, and licking the puckered nub through the thin fabric of the tank top.

Charlie bucks under him, and reaches down to give her pussy the attention he isn't paying it. Bass takes the hint and follows her hand with his own, pushing her panties aside. Without taking the nipple from his mouth, he begins to stroke her clit. She's very wet and soon his fingers are sliding in with shallow thrusts.

"Please, Monroe," she begs. "Need more than your fingers."

He moves back up her body, pulling her panties free and tossing them aside. He nuzzles her neck, kissing the flesh behind her ear. As he settles above her, he relishes the feel of her supple thighs as they wrap around his hips. He positions himself between her legs, brushing the head of his cock against the velvety slick of her pussy. She keens under him, lifting her hips from the bed. This move causes the first two inches of his dick to slide inside her.

"More," she says with a throaty plea.

Bass doesn't use words to respond, but edges his cock into her slowly. Her pussy is tight, hot and very wet. He struggles not to let loose and pound her senseless even though his instinct begs for exactly that. Instead he pumps in and out slowly, loving the way her needy cunt grips his cock.

Charlie pivots her hips to welcome his every thrust. Her fingernails scrape raw red stripes on his back and her heels cross over his ass. He can feel a change in her. Charlie's breathing is ragged and her body is tensing. He reaches between their bodies and rubs her clit until she comes. As her pussy spasms around his cock, he picks up his pace, fucking her with forceful thrusts until his own orgasm is upon him. He pulls from her and spurts his release across her thigh before rolling to lie on his back at her side.

They are both covered in a thin sheen of sweat and breathing heavily. Bass glances her way. "That was – " he hesitates, taking a steadying breath. "That was a mistake."

"No." Her voice is soft and small. "It wasn't." She's going to say more, but he rolls away, with his back to her, clearly not interested in talking about it further.

* * *

Miles, Jeremy and Will get two adjoining rooms in a shitty motel that appears to be a popular hangout for truckers and hookers. Jeremy is sitting on the edge of a lumpy bed, searching through the available channels with a remote that is connected to the television with a long thin cord. Miles pores over a road map of Oklahoma while Will goes to the car to retrieve their bags.

Strausser has just shut the trunk when he hears a phone ringing inside the car. He sets down the bags and begins searching the GTO's interior. He finds Bass's abandoned phone under the front passenger seat just as it stops ringing. On the screen it says "Missed Call – Rachel Matheson"

Will recoils with a hiss and carries the phone toward the motel. He lets the room door slam behind him and holds the phone out, only grasping it with a thumb and forefinger. "What the hell is your ex calling Bass for?"

Miles stares at the outstretched phone. "Rachel?"

Jeremy scrunches up his face in distaste without looking away from the television. "Never did care for that one."

Miles frowns. "She wasn't so bad."

"They say the memory is the first thing to go," Jeremy shakes his head with a distracted chuckle, already half engrossed in a baseball game on ESPN.

Will points at the phone. "Just hearing her name makes my dick shrivel. She was a cold hearted shrew."

"Truth," Jeremy agrees.

"Stop, both of you." Miles types some numbers into Bass's phone.

Will scowls at Miles. "How the hell do you know Bass's unlock code?"

"It's his Mom's birthday. He uses it for everything. Always has." Once he's in, Miles scrolls through recent calls and finds Rachel's number. She's called Bass several times, but it looks like he only answered once and that was more than a week ago.

"What the hell is going on?" he asks nobody in particular. "Why is Rachel calling Bass?"

"You gonna call her and find out?" Will asks.

"Maybe, but not yet. I need to think about this."

Jeremy grins. "Yeah, sure you do. I bet the truth is that you just don't want to talk to her any more than we do."

* * *

Even though Bass had made quite a production of rolling to his side of the bed after they'd fucked, it appears that unconscious Bass is a lot less guarded. Charlie smiles, snuggling deeper into his embrace. She's not sure when he came to her side of the bed to spoon her, but she won't complain.

It feels good to be wrapped in his arms. It feels right, somehow, even though she knows nothing about their situation is 'right'. Nobody would be able to convince her that it doesn't feel right, though. His naked body is hard and lean and fits perfectly against her softer curves. He snores quietly with his face buried in her hair, and one hand possessively cupping her left breast.

She knows that she should probably feel bad for getting drunk and seducing this man. He's not a poster child for mental health at the moment, after all. She should probably be filled with regret and worry. Fucking a guy she barely knows is one thing. Fucking a guy she only knows because he kidnapped her is quite another – and the fact that he's possibly on the verge of a complete mental breakdown doesn't help her case.

The thing is, she sees something else when she looks at him – something under the beard and the sadness and the crazy – something real. When she had first encountered him outside the shelter, she'd been sure he was unhinged and out of control. She's seen a different side of him this week, and it's occasionally been a side that intrigues her.

Charlie isn't sure what he'll think or say when he wakes up, but she knows that she isn't sorry.

He mumbles something in his sleep and squeezes her more snugly against him. She feels his cock twitch against her ass.

"Mmm," she hums, her voice throaty with approval.

He freezes behind her and starts to pull away as he wakes. Charlie reaches around and grasps his hip, pulling him closer to her body again. "Stay," she pleads, her voice a soft needy whisper.

"Why?"

"Because I like the way this feels."

He sighs. "It does feel good, but it's still a mistake."

"No," she says flatly.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to –"

"Didn't mean to what? Shove me into your trunk? Drag me cross country? Get to know me? Fuck me?"

He sighs. "All of it. I don't want to hurt you, Charlie." His voice is laced with sadness, but at least he isn't trying to move away anymore. His lips are close enough to her ear that she can feel his hot breath on her flesh.

"You act like I'm this delicate flower that will wilt as soon as you move on. I'm no delicate flower, Bass."

"I know, but you said everyone leaves you. Eventually, I'll leave you too and you know it. That's why you were upset. That's why you were drinking."

"I was upset because I thought you'd left without saying goodbye." She wiggles her ass against his thickening cock before pulling away slightly. "But that isn't what happened."

"But it will."

"I can take goodbye when it happens. What I can't take is you killing yourself. I am not so worried about that anymore."

"Why not?"

She shakes her head. "I'm not even sure exactly, but I don't think you're going to do that now." She gets up on her knees as he rolls to his back. Charlie crawls up to straddles his hips, her damp pussy rests on his hardening cock.

He is distracted by the sensation of Charlie's slick heat as she slowly begins to rub against his length. Breathing heavily, he makes an effort to speak. "I'm not making any promises. I don't know what my plans are now." He's having a difficult time focusing.

"We know one thing for sure." She begins to increase the pace of her movements and Bass grasps her thighs in response. "You aren't going anywhere right now."

"Stop. We can't do this again. I just told you all the reasons that we can't - "

"Yeah, but your reasons are stupid."

He wants to be unaffected, but the way she's moving is driving him crazy. She is warm and soft, and her gentle touches wake him in ways that he had assumed would never happen to him again.

He gives up all pretense of saying no when she leans in close and kisses his mouth.

* * *

Tom Neville sits low in the driver's seat of his old Cadillac. Occasionally he takes a drag from the cigarette that dangles loosely from his fingers. The Oklahoma night is full dark with only a flickering street light illuminating the entrance to the generic looking hotel Tom has been staring at for a couple hours. He'd watched Monroe leave the room and return. He doesn't know where the former Marine had gone or why and he guesses he should have followed, but he still wants to figure out how the girl plays into all this. Maybe she knew Connor? Maybe she's the key to the information Neville needs?

He grabs his cell phone when it rings. Glancing at the caller ID, he hits the green button and holds the phone to his ear. "Jason? What's wrong?"

The line crackles faintly. Even with modern technology being what it is, there are times when the connections are poor. This is evidently one of those times.

Jason's voice cuts in and out, but is still legible. "Did you get it?"

"Not yet. Be patient, boy. I'm working on it."

"Work faster. I need this shit cleared up. Flynn is going to have my head if – "

"Don't you ever talk to me with that tone. And don't worry about Flynn. I've been feeding him false information ever since it happened. He doesn't know anything."

"Are you sure?"

Neville's smile is cold and more than a little proud. "Yeah, he doesn't even know the real identity of Bennett's father. I intercepted the official report and changed the data. It pays to be his information specialist now and then."

"Better be careful or you and I will be sharing a cell. Pretty sure that tampering with government documents is not going to win you any favors, regardless of your job title."

"Don't you worry, son. I'll be wrapping this up soon. Have to. My vacation days will all be used up by the end of the week. I'll get the info Bennett gave his dad and everything can go back to normal."

"What about the money?"

"I have it with me. I'll make the payment as soon as this other business is taken care of."

"Be sure you do. Everything rides on all of this shit falling into place."

"Yes, Jason. I'm aware." Tom rolls his eyes. Sometimes this boy drives him crazy. "Any chance you can keep your nose clean while everything shakes out? We can't handle any more fuck ups."

Jason says something snarky but the connection is much worse now and the words are garbled. Tom's voice goes icy cold. "Watch yourself, boy. You treat me with respect. Especially after all I've done for you. I'm getting tired of cleaning up your goddamned messes."

Tom disconnects without waiting for a response. Tapping the phone lightly against the steering wheel, he watches the dark hotel. Tomorrow. That's when he'll make his move. He's wasted too much time traipsing after these two.

He will get what he's after tomorrow, and God help Monroe if he tries to get in the way of his plan. Neville pulls a large semi-automatic handgun from his glove box and looks at the way the steel barrel gleams in the glow of the streetlamp.

Tomorrow. That's when he'll get his answers and take care of this Monroe problem once and for all.

* * *

 **A/N: First of all, my apologies to anyone still bothering with this story. I'm very sorry for the delay in updates. Secondly, this story continues to be a birthday gift for Romeo. Hope you are enjoying it. Thirdly(?) Thanks so very much to Tex who gave me master level beta assistance and to Irish who has been a non-stop source of moral support as I plug along with this story. There are two chapters left. Lots of action (and some more familiar faces) lie ahead. I hope you'll stick around. Please leave a comment if you'd be so kind. -Lemon**


	8. Chapter 8: Oklahoma City to Flagstaff

**Oklahoma City to Flagstaff (864 miles, 12 hours driving time)**

As morning dawns, Bass wakes slowly, feeling truly rested for the first time in weeks. Charlie is asleep in his arms, all warm and supple and tantalizingly naked. He won't let himself dwell on how right she feels nestled there with her hair spilling all around and her breath hot on his chest.

He carefully extricates himself from her warmth without waking her. For a moment, he stands by the bed, watching her sleep. She's beautiful and smart and kind and she deserves more than a drunken romp with a broken man. No matter how good it had felt, Bass knows it was asinine to fuck her.

Twice.

"Shit." He shakes his head. Once was bad enough, but he cannot believe he had given in that second time. Bass used to be able to say no. He used to be able to reign in his libido when things got out of hand. Last night with Charlie though, it was like all common sense and self-restraint had flown out the window.

He steps into the shower stall and pulls the curtain shut behind him. The water is hot and the pressure is perfect, massaging sleep-stiff muscles. He stands with his arms braced and his face upturned to the forceful spray. The downpour courses over the planes of his face, slides through his beard and onto his chest as steam fills the bathroom. He wants to get lost in the sensation of the water and the heat, and let it calm his troubled thoughts, but his mind won't still. Repeatedly, he finds himself immersed in mental images of the night before. Even though he knows it was a mistake, he can't remember the last time he'd responded so fully to someone in bed. It had been a while. A long while.

But no matter how good it was, Bass knows crossing that line last night was a big mistake. He wonders if Charlie sees that too? Bass's plans haven't changed. He needs to get Charlie to Rachel. His shoulders slump as he mentally games out the rest of this trip. The miles left between Oklahoma City and L.A. should take two days, maybe three. If they push through the rest of the journey and he doesn't encourage her, maybe she'll understand that they shouldn't do anything like that again.

Maybe.

He hears the bathroom door open and close gently. He hears the soft steps of bare feet on the tile that stop just on the other side of the curtain. When she speaks, her voice is tentative. "You okay?"

"Yeah. What do you want?"

She doesn't answer, but she also doesn't leave. He can almost feel her inner dialogue, and he wonders if she's considering pulling back the curtain and joining him. His cock twitches at that thought even as his brain reminds him of all the reasons that would be a terrible idea. "Just go away, Charlie."

The next sound he hears is the soft click as the door closes again.

He finishes quickly and pulls dry clothes over damp skin before entering the room. Charlie is sitting on the edge of the bed and she is watching him. She looks tired and weary. "Sorry I bothered you. You were in there a long time. Got worried."

"I'm fine."

"Okay. Whatever." She stands and moves to walk past, avoiding eye contact. "Gonna take my shower."

Bass reaches out and grasps her wrist. "Hey. I'm sorry for being a dick. I just - " He shakes his head and drops her hand. "Nothing is going the way I'd planned."

"I think you're wrong. Your plan is fine. We're still heading west. I haven't bolted." Charlie won't meet his eyes and her voice sounds hollow. "When we get to L.A., you can trade me to my mom for whatever information she's told you she has and we can - ."

"I was talking about last night. I'm sorry -"

She looks up then, her blue eyes flashing. "Yeah, I know you're sorry, but that doesn't mean I am." Charlie waits for a beat, but when he doesn't reply she brushes past him, slamming the door after she enters the bathroom.

* * *

Tom Neville watches as Monroe and the girl leave the hotel. He takes note of the duffel bags they carry and the twin heads of damp hair. It looks like they are in a hurry. Neville's eyes stay on the duo as he bites into the flavorless Egg McMuffin he'd picked up at the corner McDonald's. He stops chewing for a moment, watching curiously as the girl trips on a chunk of broken sidewalk and Monroe catches her arm to steady her.

There's a moment where she looks up at him and says something. Though Neville is too far away to hear her words, he knows how to read body language., and he reads the frustrated shake of Monroe's head easily. Trouble in paradise? Neville takes another bite. Nothing overt is happening between the two. It's all innocent, or should be - but something in that single interaction tells Neville once and for all that these two are more than traveling companions. "Interesting," he mutters before shoving what's left of his breakfast into the greasy bag from which it had come.

The girl opens the trunk while Monroe gets behind the wheel. She leans over, arranging their bags in the space. She's wearing faded jeans and they hug her ass nicely. Neville swallows a gulp of coffee and winces as the burn tortures his throat. His eyes don't leave her ass though. Yeah, he can see why Monroe would want a piece of that. She is fine.

He watches as she slams the trunk shut and climbs into the car. This is Neville's cue, and he turns the key in the Cadillac's ignition, pulling out onto the street without glancing toward the Cutlass, which noses into traffic just a few car links behind him.

Neville had picked up a lojack at Radio Shack and attached it to the undercarriage of the Sierra last night while they slept. Now, he doesn't have to keep them in sight at all times; however, he is pretty sure that they are heading west, and he knows the highway they'll likely choose. No reason he can't get a head start.

They'll meet up soon enough, of that Neville is sure. He needs to know what Connor Bennett gave Bass Monroe before he died, and Tom figures the open highway is the perfect place to confront the former marine.

After Tom gets his answers, he can continue on to Vegas to deliver the package he has stowed in his trunk. There is a timeline there, so he'll have to wrap up this Monroe mystery ASAP. Tom frowns. He hates wasting his vacation with all this low-level private eye bullshit. If only his son hadn't been such an idiot, all of this could have been avoided.

Tom shakes his head. That ship has sailed. No reason to dwell on all the missed opportunities when it comes to Jason. Tom puts on his shades and glances down at the digital readout on the gadget in his passenger seat. As expected, the little red blinking light is following along right behind him.

* * *

Miles had not slept well, and it wasn't only because he'd shared a lumpy hotel bed with Baker, who snored like a bulldozer and kicked like a kangaroo. The real problem had been the noise inside his head. He'd tossed and turned, dreading the fact that he would have to call Rachel sooner rather than later. It had been several years since he'd last talked to her, and he had been perfectly happy thinking it would never have to happen again.

Their relationship had always been odd. In the beginning it had been all forbidden passion and lusty excitement as they snuck around behind Ben's back. After the divorce, Miles and Rachel had hooked up whenever he was on leave. They didn't come right out and tell the kids what was going on, but Charlie and Danny were smart children. Their resentment was evident and only faded after Ben and Maggie had died. Strangely, it was only after Miles and Rachel had broken up for good that her children fully embraced their Uncle Miles.

Over the years, he had kept in contact with the kids. When Charlie had called him to tell him Danny had died, Miles felt like a part of him died too. He had rushed to her side and done all he could to help her survive that first week.

Miles remembers Danny's funeral and how lost and sad Charlie had been - how small she'd looked in her grief. He'll never forgive Rachel for not going to her own son's memorial. Charlie is the strongest most kind hearted person he knows. She had needed her mom that day, and it is the thought of Charlie that spurns him into action.

A woman who can't be bothered to attend her own son's memorial service is unlikely to call up an old acquaintance just for fun. Rachel Matheson has an agenda, and Miles needs to know what it is and why she's involved Bass in it at all. Miles sighs as he hits the call back button next to Rachel's number. The phone only rings once before he hears her clipped tone. "Monroe?"

"Guess again."

There is a long silence. "Miles?"

"Yeah. Why have you been calling Bass?"

She ignores his question. "Is he with you?"

"No. I'm looking for him. Found his phone and saw you'd called."

"Why are you looking for him? Is he okay? Is he alone?"

"I just told you I'm looking for him, so I don't know if he's okay. I don't know if he's alone." Even as Miles says these words, he remembers the missing ropes and cuffs from Strausser's. "He might not be alone. We don't know. Regardless, he's in trouble. I guess he's suicidal or some shit."

"Suicidal? Wait. Where are you? Where did you find the phone?"

"Oklahoma."

"He's running late." Rachel doesn't even try to hide her annoyance.

"What the hell are you talking about? Running late, where?"

"Here." She says. "He's coming here." Rachel sounds inconvenienced and maybe a little worried, which is unsettling. Miles feels fear grip his gut. Rachel continues. "He's coming to California to see me."

"Why?"

"It's a long story, Miles. But he's coming here, and he's bringing Charlie with him."

"Wait. What?"

"I asked him to bring her to me, and he said he would."

Miles grips the phone tightly. "Why in the hell would you ask him to do that? Why him? And why would she agree? She doesn't know him. Jesus, did you tell him to take her by force?"

"By force? Of course not."

"What were your exact instructions?"

Rachel sighs. "I told him where she'd be and that she might fight back, but I also told him not to hurt her. She won't listen to me, Miles. She won't take my calls."

Miles pauses for several seconds, disturbed by how calm Rachel sounds while what she's saying is utterly insane. Finally he replies, "So your answer was hire a guy you knew a long time ago – a guy who has recently suffered a horrible loss and PTSD and who knows what else – to do what? Kidnap her?"

"Not exactly."

"Rachel, how did you get him to agree to any of this? I don't understand why Bass would ever sign on to this stupid-ass plan?"

"I just wanted to see her, and I've been really busy in the lab. We're working on a very important project right now, and I haven't been able to get away. I came across Bass's name in a report and realized I had some information that he might want. Thought he'd be willing to help me out."

"So, blackmail?"

"Not blackmail. It's a trade. I'm sure she's fine. Don't worry so much, Miles. You know Bass. He wouldn't let anything happen to Charlie."

* * *

Bass and Charlie are heading west on I-40, and tension hangs heavy between them as the scenery whirls by. Neither of them have been in the mood to talk, each lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Charlie decides that she can't take the silence any longer and leans between the seats to dig in the tub for compact disks that they haven't listened to yet.

Charlie plops back down in her seat and looks at the jewel cases. "So, looks like we've got Garth Brooks, AC/DC, and Disturbed for this round. Preference?"

She doesn't expect an answer and looks up with surprise when he speaks. He keeps his gaze on the highway ahead of them, and his voice is low. "Which Disturbed is it?"

"What?" she asks, not sure she heard him right.

"Which album?

"Oh. Uh…" She looks at the disk in question. "It's called _Immortalized_. That the one you want?"

He nods and his jaw tightens. His response comes out with a growl. "Yeah. That one."

Charlie shrugs and slides the disk into the player. She leans back then, propping her bare feet on the dash next to the swaying hula girl. As the music begins to play, she lets her mind wander.

The problem is that the only place her mind wants to wander is last night. Drunk or not, that had been some of the best sex of her life. Charlie tries to focus on how much of a mistake it had been and how clearly regretful he is, but she can't stop the barrage of memories.

She lets her gaze fall on his hands which loosely grip the steering wheel. He has great hands. She thinks about all the things those hands were doing last night, and that thought brings on a barrage of images from their time together…

It had started rough and urgent, but there had been a point when things had shifted. It still hadn't been gentle, but it had (for a while, anyway) been something else. Since the beginning, he's told her that he's broken, and she knows that he is, but last night she thinks she caught a glimpse of an unbroken Bass - or at least a less broken version.

It was a version of him that she liked. A version she'd like to know better… Charlie lets out a ragged breath and glances at Bass's face. He's eyeing her narrowly and frowns. "You okay?"

She nods. "Uh yeah, I'm fine."

He turns back to face the road, oblivious to the little replay happening in her mind. Charlie leans back with a sigh and rests her head against the seat. She closes her eyes, listening to the music and trying not to think about the man sitting to her left or all the delicious things he knows how to do with his hands.

Charlie sits like that for a long time, just thinking and listening. When Disturbed's cover of "The Sound of Silence" begins, Charlie frowns. _Hello darkness my old friend_ , indeed. This is the single last song Bass needs to hear. She's tempted to hit the button that skips to the next song, but something tells her not to.

She opens her eyes slowly, hoping to catch him unaware and that is exactly what she does. He continues to stare straight ahead as the song plays, his jaw tight. The song ends and Charlie feels relieved. Her relief turns into surprise when he reaches out and hits the button himself - not to fast forward the song, but to repeat it.

 _Hello darkness, my old friend.  
I've come to talk with you again.  
Because a vision softly creeping  
Left its seeds while I was sleeping  
And the vision that was planted in my brain  
Still remains  
Within the sound of silence..._

She reaches out without really thinking about it. Her hand lands on his arm, and he jerks away like he's been stung. She sees now that tears are streaming down his face. He doesn't bother to wipe them away.

"This song?" she asks. "There's a story here?"

He doesn't answer at first. His eyes are back on the road. Charlie has almost given up when he finally speaks. "Connor and I used to argue about music."

"And this song?"

"He loved it. I loved the original." He glances over. His eyes are incredibly sad. "You know it, right?"

"Simon and Garfunkel? Sure." Charlie shrugs. "My dad played old records all the time when I was growing up. I knew all the lyrics to _Mrs. Robinson_ before I started kindergarten."

Bass chuckles at that and Charlie feels her heart lift a little. She smiles. "So, you and Connor?"

He shrugs and the smile fades. "It was a running joke I guess. He always liked the remakes, and I always liked the originals. Never failed."

"Let me guess - Limp Bizkit's _Behind Blue Eyes_?"

"Yeah.. He loved it, and I only wanted the Who's version."

"So it was a game?"

"I guess it was. We went out of our way to find remakes and even if they were awful, he would say he loved them, and I would disagree."

"I loved when Johnny Cash covered _Hurt_ ," Charlie offers. "Was that one on your list?"

He nods and flashes her a sad smile. "I liked that one too but never admitted it to Connor." Bass shakes his head. "You know, he tortured me on my birthday one year - asked the DJ to play Britney Spears' cover of _I Love Rock and Roll_ and dedicated it to me."

Charlie laughs and scrunches up her nose in distaste. "Not good."

Bass sighs quietly. Charlie sees that his tears are dry. She chooses not to say anything about that. Instead she presses on, "Did you ever agree about any song?"

"Only one. We both loved the song _Hallelujah_ and we both loved two versions. Leonard Cohen was the original and the cover we both liked was by - "

"Let me guess - Jeff Buckley?"

"You know Buckley?" His surprise is evident. "A lot of singers have covered that one."

"Well, yeah, a lot of singers covered it, but not all of them did it well."

They sit in a comfortable silence for a long time. The CD ends, and Charlie pops in Garth Brooks. Half of that one is finished when she finally turns to him again. "You know that was the first time?"

"First time what?"

"First time since we met that you talked to me about Connor and smiled?"

Bass doesn't answer. He isn't even sure that he knows how.

* * *

Rachel Matheson is lost in thought as she stares through the spotless glass of the wall of windows in her computer lab, overlooking downtown Los Angeles. The street below is bustling with afternoon traffic, and the green fronds on the tall palms sway softly in the warm summer breeze. It's a beautiful day, but Rachel isn't really noticing any of it.

She's distracted, unable to shake the feeling of unease which has haunted her since she'd talked to Miles. Admittedly, she can sometimes be oblivious to the needs of others. This is a character trait which has been pointed out to her on more than one occasion and by more than one person.

Maybe calling Bass for help had been a bad idea, but at the time it had felt like an answer to her problem. She wanted to see Charlie but didn't have time to track her down and drag her home. When she'd come across Monroe's name in one of the DOD files her firm had been contracted to reconfigure, Rachel had figured it was fate. She had a feeling that Bass would want to know the details from that file as much as she wanted to see her daughter again.

It hadn't occurred to her that Bass wouldn't be the same guy she'd known all those years ago.

Her thoughts are interrupted when the door opens and Aaron Pittman enters. He looks nervous, but then he always looks nervous. "What is it, Aaron?"

"You know how you asked for me to dig a little deeper into those DOD files?"

Rachel frowns. "It was an hour ago. Yes, I remember."

"Well, yeah." He shrugs, smiling sheepishly. "Sorry. Anyway, I think I may have found something."

"About Monroe?"

"Uh, sort of?" He looks down at the printout in his hand to refresh his memory. "It's actually about a guy named Edward Flynn who died almost ten years ago. Monroe was with him when he died."

Rachel purses her lips as the long forgotten name clicks into place. "So was Miles."

"So I guess you probably already know."

"Know what?"

"The weird similarities between Edward Flynn and the kid who shot Monroe's son?"

Rachel feels a cool flutter of curiosity. "Oh? What similarity is that?"

* * *

Texas is behind them, and the dusty flatland of New Mexico seems endless on both sides of this stretch of lonely highway. Bass drives without conscious thought - not that he needs much here. They haven't met another car for miles, and the road is rail straight for as far as the eye can see. He could probably take a nap if the wheel could be held steady.

That is, _if_ he could actually fall asleep in the first place.

He glances over at Charlie. She's sound asleep (of course), curled up in the passenger seat, using her hand as a pillow. Her breathing is soft, and her features are peaceful. His gaze drifts back to the road but his thoughts remain on Charlie.

Ever since they'd talked about Connor and his love for crappy remakes, Bass has felt unsettled. She had pointed out that he'd been able to talk about Connor in a way that was different - a way that showed he was maybe starting to deal with his grief.

Bass wanted to argue. He wanted to tell her she had no idea what she was talking about, except that he knew she did. She knew grief. Charlie knew better than most. She had held her brother in her arms as he died. A few years earlier, she'd lost her dad and stepmom. She's talked about both her dad and her brother in the short time he's known her. She has mentioned Danny's penchant for practical jokes and her dad's love of classic rock bands. She'd told him about the time she took her brother to a strip club for his birthday and the way it had felt to watch her dad get remarried. She'd talked about them, but hadn't dwelt on how they died. She had focused on the good things she remembered about the ones she'd lost.

Yes, Charlie knew what she was talking about because she'd been where he is. And she's probably right. No matter how much he wallows in his grief or wishes it that bullet had hit him instead of his son; Bass knows that he is starting to process his loss - well, sort of. Imagining long conversations with your dead son may or may not be one of the textbook stages of grief. When he lets himself think about the battlefield where he'd lost Connor, his heart still aches with anguish and despair, but now he finds that he can think about other - happier - memories too.

Not every thought of Connor is from that bloody day in the desert.

Now he can also think about the Connor who liked smoking cigarettes while listening to Bob Dylan and the Connor who loved hiking and whitewater rafting. He can remember the time Connor brought home his first girlfriend and the time that same girl broke his boy's heart. He remembers when Connor would stay up late watching Monty Python movies or playing his guitar and when they would sit around the kitchen island bullshitting over breakfast.

Charlie's right. He's beginning to heal. He can't help but wonder if she's part of the reason that is true...

* * *

Randall Flynn sits in his office. He's reviewing the new defense funding bill that the Senate is scheduled to vote on within the week. If all goes well, the money will be enough to put the next phase of Project Sunrise into action. He's smiling at the financial summary page. All those zeroes show that the work he's done - greasing the wheels and schmoozing senators - is finally paying off.

A knock on the door interrupts his thoughts. He looks up to see one of the IT guys. Flynn doesn't remember his name, and doesn't really care. "What do you want?" he asks, his eyes already back on the report.

"Sir, we might have a problem."

This gets Flynn's attention. He leans back in his chair and focuses on his visitor. "Oh, and what problem is that?"

The young man starts shuffling nervously through a file in his hands. Flynn isn't a patient person, and this visit is becoming tedious. "Do you need to come back later after you've found the information?" his tone is sugar sweet, but there is an edge to it.

"Uh no. It's here. I'm sorry." The boy (because MIT degree or not, this is what he is) looks up again. "It looks like some of your reports have been modified."

Flynn's irritation at the boy turns into a deeper concern. "What reports?"

"The Neville incident in Afghanistan? Some of the report appears to have been tweaked."

Flynn frowns, schooling his features to contain the rage that is building. He'll never get answers from the boy if he blows up now. "Tweaked how? What information?"

"Background on the soldier who died. We're still retrieving the original files, but it looks like several updates were made."

Flynn forces a bored smile. "Interesting. Who do you think might have made these changes?"

The boy shifts from foot to foot. This is apparently the part he is least excited to tell the boss about. "Uh, it looks like it was someone in your office, sir. The computer we traced the changes to was here."

Sparks of white hot anger spike through him, and he can feel the thunderous pounding of his heart, but on the outside, Flynn continues to exude an icy calm. "Please show me which computer it was."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Charlie has been asleep for almost an hour when Bass sees the sign for 'last rest stop in 50 miles'. He reaches over and pats her thigh awkwardly. "Hey, Charlie. Wake up. We're in Arizona. Time for a bathroom break."

Charlie mumbles something but doesn't open her eyes. He shrugs and follows the signs to the parking lot that circles a small park and picnic area. In the center is a brick structure that houses rest rooms and vending machines with entrances on all four sides. Bass turns off the car and watches Charlie for a minute before deciding to go on in. When he gets back, he'll wake her up.

He uses the facilities quickly and goes back into the main foyer of the building. He's standing next to a display of Arizona road maps, facing a wall of vending machines. He's trying to decide if Charlie would prefer Snickers or Twix, when the glass door opposite the one he'd used to enter bangs open. A frantic man runs in. He looks disheveled and panicked. Bass tenses, sensing something is very wrong. The man looks around and when his eyes settle on Bass, relief is evident in his expression. "Thank God. I thought nobody was here."

"What's going on?"

"My wife. She's in labor. Paramedics are on the way, but I need help." HIs eyes are pleading and desperate. Bass flashes back to a hospital room from long ago, where he'd watched his wife die in childbirth. Bass doesn't hesitate. He pockets his change and follows the man at a run.

"Come on. She's in here." The worried man runs to a shed on the edge of the rest area grounds.

Bass comes to a halt, worry and fear suddenly causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand at attention. "Your wife is in a tool shed?"

"There is a cot in here. She wasn't comfortable in the car, so we improvised." The man nods over to a parked Cadillac. It's an older model, but well taken care of. "Please, Sir. She's all I have. I can't lose her."

Memories of Shelly overwhelm his worry, and he follows the man into the shed.

* * *

Charlie wakes and stretches as she opens her eyes. A limp, warm breeze circulates but the car is still dreadfully hot. She takes note of her surroundings, assuming Bass has gone on inside so that she could sleep a few more minutes. Charlie grabs the keys from the ignition and puts them in her pocket before getting out of the car. She's getting ready to slam the car door when she hears the voices.

They are muffled, but something about the tone puts her on edge. She tilts her head, listening intently and feels gooseflesh rise on her arms when she hears Bass's voice.

She can't make out his words, but clearly something is very wrong.

Charlie glances around the rest area, but there isn't much to see. Only part of the parking area is visible from where she stands, but she doesn't see Bass or anyone else he could be speaking to. A hot feeling of foreboding slides down her spine. He might be in trouble, and she has to do something to help. Leaning back in through the car's open window, she opens the glove box. Nestled inside, on top of the Zip Lock bag that holds Connor's ashes, is a handgun - the same one Bass had pointed at her in the beginning.

She picks it up, surprised by the heft of the thing. Charlie doesn't know anything about guns, except that right now, she thinks she might need one. She tucks it in the back of her waistband and closes the car door silently.

Then, she follows the voices, which she quickly realizes are coming from a small shed, and not the big building where the bathrooms are. .

"What the fuck is going on?" Bass sounds confused and tense.

"I'll make this simple. Whatever Connor gave you before he died; I need you to give it to me."

Charlie walks very slowly around the perimeter of the shed where Bass and another man are arguing. She can't see them, but she can clearly hear what they are saying.

"Who are you and how do you know Connor?" Bass asks, clearly at a loss.

"My apologies. I should have introduced myself. Name is Tom Neville. Ring any bells?"

"Neville? Then you're - " Bass's voice cracks. "You're related to Jason Neville?"

"Yes. Jason is my boy."

Bass's voice is raw with emotion. "He killed my son. He killed Connor."

"That is true, but it's not why we're here. You have something. I need you to give it to me."

Bass is frustrated and angry. "I don't have anything except my kid's ashes. I'm heading to California to sprinkle them in the ocean."

Neville tilts his head. "Why's the girl with you?"

"I'm just giving her a ride. She's nobody. Leave her out of it."

Charlie's chest constricts. Nobody. She shouldn't be surprised. Charlie looks up when she hears Neville growl and she leans around the edge of the door just enough to glimpse Bass. He has his hands up, and the man he's talking to-Neville-has his back to Charlie. Neville has a gun pointed at Bass. "Your son had something, and I think he gave it to you."

"All I have of Connor's are some old family pictures. That's it. I gave everything else to the Salvation Army."

"No." Neville loses his patience. "You have to have it. Think, man. Think! It could be a file he sent via email, or maybe he gave you a thumb drive?"

"I'm telling you that he gave me nothing."

Neville ignores Bass's statement. "If you can't help me, I'll see if the girl will. I can be very persuasive, Monroe. I'll even let you watch." Neville's laugh is icy and bitter as he raises his gun to point it at Bass's head. Charlie watches Bass tense, but he doesn't cower or move away.

He steps toward Neville with cold fury on his face. "You will not fucking touch her."

Neville's finger caresses the trigger and Charlie knows her only chance is now.. "No!" She yells, lifting Bass's gun as she steps into the shed. She shoots at Neville. Her bullet thuds impotently into a bag of fertilizer, but she gets Neville's full attention. He swivels, and now it's Charlie staring down the barrel of a gun.

"Ah, you came to protect your boyfriend. Isn't that sweet?"

In this moment, Charlie is racked by fear and also realization that she knows this man. "Wal Mart," she whispers. "You talked to me at Wal Mart." She gets her bearings and points the gun again, but her hands are shaky.

Neville grins slowly. It is an evil grin. "So glad you could join us, Ms. Matheson. I do have plans for you -"

Bass steps quickly behind the distracted Neville and grasps his head, twisting with a fierce jerk. A soft crack breaks the silence and Neville's eyes stare blankly as he falls.

Charlie's eyes pop wide with shock and her pulse pounds in her ears. She lets her arm fall, the gun dangling from her limp fingers. "Oh, God. He was going to shoot you and then he was... Oh God. You killed him."

Bass is frantic, running to her and carefully extricating the gun from her loose grip. "I had to. He was going to hurt you." Bass tucks the gun into his own waistband and brushes his fingers over her hair and shoulders. His fingers are shaking as he checks to see that she's okay. His eyes are wild. "I'm so sorry that any of this - I'm so sorry."

Charlie's eyes are wide and unfocused. She steps away from him, staring at the body crumpled on the ground. "I'm fine." Her voice is distant and dull. "That guy talked to me at Wal Mart."

"What do you mean? When was that?"

She shakes her head, unsure. "When we were in Missouri, maybe? Somewhere around Kansas City. He was really… creepy." Charlie can't tear her eyes from the body. She feels a little light headed and her stomach churns.

"Sit down. You should sit down." He helps her settle on low pile of wooden pallets.

"I'm fine," she says again and her voice does sound a little more normal. "Wait. Did he say his son is the one who killed Connor?"

Bass nods, his expression is grim. "Yeah."

"Why were you in here? Why were either of you in here?" She looks around the shed, baffled.

"He said his wife was in labor. Said she was in trouble. It was a trick, but I didn't get that. I just wanted a candy bar for you, but when he said that - about his wife - my brain stopped working right, I guess." Bass runs a hand through his hair, ruffling the curls into further disarray.

She looks at Bass then and sees the grief and pain in his face. She remembers the ultrasound picture she'd found in his bag. "Shelly - she died in childbirth?"

Bass nods. "And the baby too. I lost them both. Neville must have known that would get my attention. I don't know how."

Charlie takes a deep breath, feeling calmer. "What did Neville want? He was saying you have a thumb drive or something?"

Bass runs his hands through his hair, clearly frustrated. "I wasn't lying to him. Connor didn't give me anything."

"Did he say what kind of thing might be on the missing thumb drive or whatever? Documents, pictures?"

Bass shakes his head. "No idea. He was so vague - I'm not sure he even knew what he was looking for."

"Is this related to the information you are getting from my mom?"

"I don't know, Charlie. It definitely makes me think I was right. Connor's death wasn't an accident."

She shudders. "What are you going to tell the police?"

He shakes his head. "No. No police."

"But, we have to tell them…" She motions to Neville's body.

"What am I supposed to say to the police, Charlie? I got ambushed by a guy I didn't know, but now I know his kid killed my kid? Oh and by the way, he was pointing a gun at the girl I kidnapped, and so I broke his neck because I couldn't handle her getting hurt."

"Okay, so not calling the police. I get it. No need to pretend any of that was about me. I heard you tell him I'm nobody."

Bass frowns. "Obviously, I didn't mean that. I just wanted him to leave you alone. I didn't want him to hurt you."

"Whatever. It doesn't matter."

He watches her silently for a few moments. "How did you know where to find me?"

"I heard you guys arguing. I took your gun from the car and came looking for you."

Bass stares at her. "I left the keys in the ignition. Why didn't you just drive off?

Charlie feels anger building. She looks at her hands and sees that they are shaking. "I was worried about you. Don't you get it? I want to help you, and I worry about you."

He steps closer and holds out a hand. She takes it and lets him pull her up. "I really am sorry, Charlie. And I'm not talking about last night. I'm talking about all of it. I've been a bastard and I don't deserve your kindness."

She bites her lip and he can tell she's struggling with the enormity of all that's happened. Pushing away the voice in his head that tells him it's a terrible idea, he pulls her into an embrace. She buries her face in his neck and he gently strokes her hair. "Hey. It's going to be okay. We'll figure it out."

Charlie lets him hold her, closing her eyes and soaking in the feel of his strength and his courage. He keeps telling her that he's broken, but when things get tough, he's always helping her. Saving her. Slowly, she pulls away. "Well, we need to figure it out now. We have a dead guy and we need to do something…." She looks around the shed as if searching for an answer.

Bass leads her out of the shed and closes the door. "Come with me."

"Where?"

"The car. I just remembered something."

"What?" They are walking quickly across the grass. "What did you remember?"

"That Connor's pack is in a box in my trunk. My CO brought it to me at the hospital just a few days before I was discharged, but I couldn't bring myself to look inside."

Charlie vividly remembers lying in the trunk and trying to go through everything in it to find a weapon. She had found a box, but it was sealed tightly with duct tape, so she hadn't been able to open it.

Bass pops the trunk, pulls the box out, and sets it on the pavement behind the car. Bass uses a pocket knife to cut through the tape. Charlie watches him carefully. He's been avoiding this for weeks, and she can tell he's tense. His jaw is tight. His eyes look pained.

Bass opens the flaps on the box and pulls out a worn military duffle that lies inside. Bass takes a deep breath and begins to sift through the things in the duffle. A few tee shirts and some jeans are quickly set aside. A pair of Chuck Taylors, which have seen better days, follow the clothing. Bass pulls out a hinged photo frame. Each of the two connected frames shows the face of a woman. The one on the right is Bass's wife. Charlie remembers her brown curls and wide smile. The other woman is also pretty, but in a detached sort of way. Her hair is red. Charlie points at the red head. "Who is this?"

"Emma." He holds the picture out to Charlie. "Connor's mom. The other one is Shelly."

Charlie takes the photo and studies the woman. She has a quiet beauty about her. "They were both beautiful. Connor must have missed them a lot."

"Yeah, I think he did."

"You and Emma, were you together a long time?"

"No. I hadn't seen her in years. Didn't even know we had a kid till he was almost ten. She came to me when she got sick, and that's when she told me about Connor. She was dead a month later, and Connor came to live with me and Shelly."

"You guys were high school sweethearts or something?"

Bass snorts. "Far from it. She was dating Miles, but I had a thing for her and right before we left for basic training, she and I hooked up. It meant nothing to either one of us. I'm guessing that's why she didn't bother to tell me." He shrugs, digging deeper. He pulls out a few paperbacks, a stack of postcards from a girl named Nadia, several letters from Bass, a Sony Discman, and a few more compact disks.

"Maybe one of those jewel cases has a computer disk instead of music?"

Bass nods eagerly. "Good idea." They open each one and nothing is out of the ordinary. Each disk is exactly what it should be and nothing more.

"Shit!" He stands and stares down at the pile of his dead son's possessions. "There is nothing here. Not a goddamned thing here that Neville should care about."

Charlie takes a step forward and puts a hand on Bass's arm. "So it's not here. Maybe there is somewhere else we could look? Did he have a place? Or maybe a friend who might have stored things for him? What about this Nadia?" Charlie holds up the post cards.

"He had some Army buddies, but I don't think he'd have given anything to them - not if it was something that might get them in trouble. I don't even know who Nadia is, and none of the cards have a return address. Connor had an apartment. That's where I got the CDs that are in the car. I took some booze and pictures... Gave the rest to the Salvation Army. Didn't want to deal with any of it. But it doesn't matter."

"Why?"

"He'd been overseas for almost a year. Neville acted like whatever he's looking for is recent. Connor's place hadn't been touched."

"Okay, so what do we do next?"

Bass looks lost as he stares down at his son's possessions. He's holding things together, but just barely. His voice is raw with emotion. "I don't know, Charlie. I don't know."

She bends down and begins putting Connor's things back in the bag. Bass seems to get a grip once the things are out of sight. Charlie chucks the bag back into the trunk. "What about Neville's car? Should we look in it?"

Bass nods and looks at her gratefully, "Yeah, that's a good idea."

They walk back across the yard again, and with every step, she sees that he's bouncing back. Just a few days ago, being forced to look through his kid's things would have messed him up for a long time. Today, he's able to put it behind him - at least somewhat.

As they walk by a garbage can, Bass bends over it and digs around. He pulls out a couple plastic bags. "Don't touch anything if you can help it. Cover your fingers with this bag." Charlie opens the back seat and starts to dig through a small carry-on bag. Bass opens the passenger door and looks through the glove compartment.

Neither of them find much. The car belongs to Thomas Neville according to his registration, but that's not a surprise. Bass finds a small transmitter and shows it to Charlie. "This is how he tracked us. I'll find the LoJack under the Cutlas, I'll bet. We'll toss both parts, but I don't see anything else here that could help us."

"Trunk?" Charlie asks as she pulls the release lever. They walk around to the back of the car and Bass pulls up the lid. There is only one item in the trunk that isn't related to changing a tire.

Charlie whistles at the silver suitcase. "I've only ever seen one of these on television. Usually they are used for ransom." She glances up at Bass. He frowns at her, and in spite of all that's happened, she can't help but smirk. "Too soon for kidnapping jokes?"

He just shakes his head as he leans in and pops the latches on the case. He glances up at her in surprise when there is no resistance. "It's not locked."

Bass pauses for a moment before easing the lid up. "Holy shit," he mutters. "That is a lot of cash."

The case is full of carefully stacked bundles of bills. At a glance it looks like all the bills are hundreds. Lying on top of the bundles of cash is a business card with a handwritten note. Bass picks it up and reads it aloud.

"Payment due in full on June 25," Bass glances up at Charlie. "That's tomorrow." His gaze returns to the card. He flips it over and reads the name printed in heavy gold script, "Frank Blanchard." Bass closes his eyes. "God damnit."

Charlie's pulse picks up. Something in Bass's tone shows that his concern has spiked exponentially. "Who is Blanchard?"

"Nobody I ever wanted to see again."

"Is he in the Marines, too?"

"No. He runs a pretty big chunk of Vegas. Owns four of the big casinos. He's a bad man, Charlie - a very bad man. I don't know why Neville was taking money to Blanchard, but won't be good."

"Leave it here then."

"I can't. If Neville was paying Blanchard, I need to know why. Maybe it had something to do with Connor." Bass closes the case and picks it up. "Let's go. We need to change our course. Gonna take a little detour."

"What about my Mom? When am I supposed to be in L.A.?"

Bass looks at her blankly for a moment, almost as if he'd forgotten all about that part of their trip. "We're already running late for your Mom. An extra day shouldn't matter much."

Once in the car, Bass reaches for his cell phone and realizes he doesn't have it. He thinks back and doesn't remember using it since Jasper. He turns to Charlie. "I've lost my phone. Where's yours?"

"In my bag in the trunk. It's dead though. Battery needs charged."

"Go get it. Maybe my charger will work, and we can plug it in to make a call."

"Who are we calling?" She asks after plugging the phone in and watching the screen come to life.

Bass slams his fist against the steering wheel as a thought occurs to him. "Fuck" He he doesn't have the number he needs because it was stored in his missing phone. Only one person he knows would have that number. The good news is that Charlie probably has his number. The bad news is that he's going to have to explain why he's with Charlie and that is not going to be a fun conversation.

"There's this person in Las Vegas who can help us, but I don't have the number. We're going to have to call someone who does."

Charlie looks at him questioningly. "Who?"

"Miles." Bass sighs. "We need to call your uncle"

* * *

Miles and the guys are in a shitty bar just south of Amarillo. After they'd found out Bass was heading to L.A., they'd started following. Things had been going great till the Goat had a flat, and Strausser had demanded that they take it to a shop. "I'm not running on a fucking spare."

They found a garage that specializes in classic American muscle, and the guy who runs the place assured them he'd have the GTO fixed up as good as new by tomorrow.

So now the guys are eating burgers and drinking beer in a shitty townie bar that is across the street from the garage.

Miles eats silently, watching as Strausser flirts with the lady bartender. Baker is on the other side of the bar, looking for the next song on the dusty juke box. Neither of them even hear his phone ring. He glances at the display and answers quickly when he sees his niece's name, his heart suddenly pounding.

"Charlie?"

"Hey Miles. How are you?"

"I'm fine, but who cares how I am? What's going on? How are you? Where are you?"

"Slow down with the questions. I'm okay. I sort of ran into a friend of yours, and he suggested I call you. He needs a phone number you might have."

"You sort of ran into a friend of mine?" Skepticism drips from every word.

"Yeah, uh - I'll just let you talk to him. Here."

There is a pause and then Miles hears another familiar voice. "Hey brother, it's Bass."

"Bass? Where are you? And what the fuck are you doing with Charlie?"

"Don't have time to get into that right now. I need Duncan's number. Lost my phone. Can you help?"

"No. I cannot help. You son of a bitch. What have you done to her?"

"She's fine. I have not hurt her. I will not hurt her. I'll even put her back on if you want to grill her some more. Do you have Duncan's number or not?"

Miles starts to feel a little better. Bass sounds normal and not at all suicidal. "Okay. Wait. Why do you need to talk to Duncan?"

Bass closes his eyes. "Remember that time in Tikrit?"

Baker and Strausser have finally noticed that Miles is on the phone and they are now standing at his side, watching him.

"Tikrit? Of course I remember. Wait, you mean the time with the hookers or the time with the dead guys in the alley? By the way, you better be talking about the alley."

Will chuckles. "Those hookers were prime."

Miles glares at his friend, "Shut up, Strausser. So Bass, which one was it?"

"I'm talking about the alley of course. Wait. Strausser is with you? Where the hell are you guys at?"

"Somewhere in Bumfuck, Texas. Baker is here too. We've all been looking for you."

"Well, you can stop. I'm fine. Charlie is fine. Just get me the number. Duncan still cleans up messes, right?"

"From time to time, yeah." Miles has a thought that worries him further. "Listen, Bass. Did Charlie have any involvement in whatever you need cleaned up?"

"No. Not really."

"Not really? What the hell does that mean?"

"Jesus, Miles. Stop worrying like an old lady. Her hands are clean, and nothing is going on. I'm taking her to Rachel. It's a long story, and I don't have time to get into it. Just give me the number. I know you still have it."

"Don't hurt her Bass. Not one hair on her head. Do you understand?"

"I got it. I won't hurt her." Something about the way Bass promises this, puts Miles at ease. He has known Bass for as long as he can remember. He trusts him.

Miles sighs and then rattles off a phone number. They hang up.

Baker and Strausser are watching Miles, expectantly. "What's our next move? Are we still heading to L.A., or are you calling it?"

Miles shakes his head, his gaze unfocused. "Not going home yet. In fact, as soon as the car is ready, what do you say we head to Vegas?"

Strausser grins. "Vegas? I suppose we're going to the War Clan Casino?"

Miles nods without looking at either of his friends.

Jeremy chuckles, "First Rachel, now Duncan… so, are we officially on the Miles Matheson ex-girlfriend tour?"

Miles shakes his head as his thoughts turn to seeing Duncan again. When he had realized he would need to talk to Rachel, he'd been sick with dread. But thinking about Duncan is different. He feels a fluttery feeling in his gut that fills him with warmth. "Shut up, Baker. It's not like that."

Baker smirks. "Say it a bunch of times and maybe you'll start to believe it yourself."

* * *

Bass uses Charlie's phone to find their location on Google maps, and then he dials the number Miles had given him. He doesn't have to wait long. A young male voice answers with a simple, "Hello, how may I help you?"

Bass takes a deep breath. "I need to order maid service."

The voice on the other end of the line is pleasant. "Of course, sir. Your room number?"

Bass rattles off the GPS coordinates for their current location. "I also need you to detail my car. It's a white Caddy. Virginia license plate 667 AVU. And the biggest mess is in a small shed. You'll need to bring Clorox."

"Of course, Sir. Do you have an account?"

"Not really. Tell your boss that Sebastian Monroe is calling. She knows me."

There is a pause. "Excuse me, Sir, but your name is on the list. Just a moment and I'll patch you through."

"Okay." He closes his eyes as he waits.

Duncan's throaty voice breaks the silence. "What's going on? You've never asked for my services. Not stateside, anyway."

"Need your help, and fast. Could get in a lot of trouble."

"Of course. We have your cleaning order. Anything else? Name it."

"Coming to Vegas in the next twenty four hours. I need a safe haven for two."

"Two? Are you one of the two?"

"Me, yeah. Also a woman, Charlotte Matheson. She goes by Charlie."

Duncan sucks in a surprised breath. "Matheson?"

"Yeah, she's related to Miles. Oh, and he might call you. Might even show up there."

"Why? What the hell is going on?" She sounds a little off kilter, which isn't like her at all.

Bass glances sidelong at Charlie. "Listen, if Miles shows up in Vegas, he won't be alone. The guys are with him."

Duncan sounds both relieved and amused when she finally speaks. "Will and Jeremy?"

"Yep. I guess they've been looking for me. Anyway, can you help?"

"Of course. Cleaning crew is already on the way. When you get here, I'll have a room ready. Or, do I need to give you two rooms?"

The question is loaded and Bass hesitates before answering. "Two is probably best."

"Whatever you say," she chuckles. "Talk to you soon."

"Wait, Duncan?"

"Yes?"

"Listen, Blanchard is involved in all this somehow."

"Shit. Do you need any hardware?"

"I think that's a good idea. The usual stuff."

"Done. Be safe, Sebastian."

He disconnects the call and hands the phone over to Charlie. It's still plugged into the cigarette lighter with the charger cord. "Here."

"So, what's going on?" She takes the phone and drops it into the center console.

"We need to meet up with a friend who can help us. And then we need to meet up with someone else, and that someone isn't a friend at all."

* * *

 **A/N: All my gratitude goes to anyone still reading this story. I apologize (again) for how very long I'm taking to bring this one to its conclusion (which is still two chapters away, in case you were wondering).**

 **Additional thanks go to TexasRevoFan for her beta review and generous feedback; to WildIrish for supporting me during this process every step of the way, and for LovefortheStory who had a birthday this week. I didn't get a chance to write a new story for her, so I'm dedicating this chapter to her instead.**

 **Lastly, per usual….this story is a birthday gift for Romeokijai. With any luck, I'll have it finished before her next birthday (although I make no promises). Please leave a comment if you have a moment.**


	9. Chapter 9: Flagstaff to Las Vegas

**A/N Both of the Las Vegas casinos featured in this chapter are a figment of my imagination although the Strip and Freemont Street are both very real and worth a visit.**

* * *

 **Flagstaff to Las Vegas (250 miles – 4 hours)**

Bass and Charlie leave the rest stop behind, trusting that Duncan will take care of the mess they've left there. They grab greasy burgers from a drive-thru just south of Flagstaff and begin driving west toward Vegas.

They ride in silence as the car noses into the inky blackness of a moonless night; the dull amber glow from the headlights does little to light the stretch of desert highway that lies ahead. Not that it matters. The dark road is as empty as the summer night is hot, and they haven't passed a car in almost thirty minutes.

Bass is bone-tired as they head toward Vegas, his sleepy gaze only half paying attention to the road as his thoughts continually turn to Neville and the confrontation in the shed. Those final moments play in his brain like a broken record. _He sees the gun in Neville's hand swivel toward Charlie. His heart stops. His vision goes red with rage and black with fear and he acts..._

He knows he shouldn't have killed Tom Neville. This isn't a foreign battlefield, for fuck's sake. He's a civilian now. He can't just go around snapping the necks of people who piss him off. The problem was that in that pivotal moment, when Neville had pointed his gun at Charlie, Bass cared only about saving her. The only thought in his head as he had pulled the trigger was that he couldn't lose Charlie.

And now, even though hours have passed since he'd killed Neville, he can't stop thinking about what had happened. It isn't really the killing that has him unnerved. It's the way his heart had responded to Charlie in danger. In that moment, he hadn't been worried about Rachel's reaction or about the information he wanted to trade Charlie for. He hadn't even been worried about committing murder. No. In that moment, it had been Charlie's safety, and nothing else, that had guided his hand.

And this is the thing that has him on edge – the thing that has his gut rolling with nervous worry. When, exactly, did Charlie Matheson become something more than a means to an end? When did he begin to care?

And how can he stop these feelings from developing further?

* * *

The air blowing from the car's vents is tepid, not coming close to cooling the interior of the car. Charlie fights back her nerves as best she can. This day has been out of the twilight zone, and she wants to feel normal again. She wonders how Bass is holding up, and she looks his way. The interior of the car is dark, and his face looks almost eerie as the lights from the dash reflect on his skin. Her gaze stays glued to his face, although she doesn't think he has any idea that she's watching. His eyes are on the road but unfocused, his thoughts far away. A sheen of sweat shines on his brow.

"You okay?" she asks.

He gives her a sideways glance. "Thought you were asleep." His voice sounds dry and unused.

"Not asleep. You okay?" she asks again.

He shrugs. "Sure." After a beat, he looks over again. "Are you?"

"I don't know."

Bass runs a hand through his hair. He looks tired and worried. "What's wrong?"

She frowns, starting and stopping twice before finally giving voice to her concerns. "What's wrong? Well, you killed that guy back there. Snapped his neck like he was a turkey and then called someone to take care of the body. I feel like we're in the middle of some cheesy gangster movie. We found a suitcase crammed full of cash, and now we're going to Vegas. And okay, maybe all of that is just another Tuesday for you, or whatever, but that's a big deal to most people. It's a big deal to me."

Bass sighs. "You told me you were okay. You helped me search the car. Why are you freaking out now?"

"I'm not freaking out. I'm just… trying to process."

"Listen, Charlie. It was you or him." He looks at her pointedly. "I chose you."

"And I appreciate that. I just–"

"I shouldn't have killed him. It was – it was instinct, I guess. In that moment, I had the things he said about Connor crashing around in my head and when he pointed that gun at you…" Bass sucks in a breath. "I didn't think. I just acted."

Charlie watches as his shoulders tense and his jaw tightens. She finds herself wanting nothing more than to reach out and soothe away the furrow in his brow. She curls her hands into fists so that she doesn't do exactly that. He's made it clear that her touch is unwelcome. "Okay. I think I get it. Your training or whatever kicked in, because you're a soldier."

"Yeah. Because I'm a soldier." His voice is low, and his gaze is distant once more. She's lost him again. Charlie sighs and leans back, getting comfortable. She figures she might as well take a nap. She doesn't know what's coming next, but it can't hurt to be rested.

* * *

When they roll into Vegas, Bass clearly knows his way around, not bothering with a map or GPS. He avoids the major highways, navigating the car through several older neighborhoods and down some tired back streets. After a while, he pulls up to a three-story cinderblock parking garage that has seen better days. An odd glow seems to hover over a space beyond the garage where the residential buildings give way to bigger ones.

He enters a code at the garage's un-manned guard shack, which causes the cross bar to rise on creaky hinges. Bass edges into the garage and turns left. He parks with an air of familiarity and gets out of the car. Charlie follows suit. They get their bags and the silver suitcase and start walking toward an elevator in the back wall of the garage.

"So you come here a lot?"

"I make it back once a year or so." He doesn't elaborate any more than that as he hits the button to call for the elevator. Once inside, he presses the basement level button and after a few moments, the door opens into a narrow tunnel. The walls are lined with bare bulbs screwed into wall sockets every few yards.

She follows Bass as he walks along the dimly lit passage. "Well, this isn't creepy at all." Charlie frowns at the cracks in the concrete walls. "Where does this thing lead to?"

"Freemont Street. This is an employee entrances for a handful of the casinos."

Bass leads her off the main corridor into another one that is even narrower. He comes to a stop in front of a gunmetal gray door. Plain block letters are painted on the surface with white paint that had dripped before drying. The painted letters say WAR CLAN CASINO.

Next to the door is a security keypad, and Bass enters a code with quick, familiar movements. They hear a click, and he opens the door.

The silence of the tunnel is replaced with a low pulsing thump of music as they enter an empty stairwell, leading up. The carpet on the steps is thick and red and feels strange under Charlie's boots. The air is dim and smoky, heavy with the hum of muted conversation and the incessant ringing of distant slot machine bells.

The top of the stairs opens into a hallway. Bass takes a right and Charlie follows. As they walk along, she trails her fingers along the raised wallpaper patterns of gold and orange paisley. Charlie shakes her head. "This place is…"

"Yeah." Bass almost smiles, but exhaustion wins out over anything remotely like amusement. "Come through here."

He grasps her hand and leads her down the hallway, passing a number of unmarked doors before stopping abruptly before one in particular. He opens the door without knocking and walks inside, pulling Charlie in behind him. The room's carpet and wallpaper match what they'd seen in the hallway. Hanging from the ceiling is an elaborate chandelier. Like everything else in the space, it is old, but seems well cared for.

A large table stands in the center of the room. It is topped with green felt and surrounded by a group of men and women sitting on wooden chairs, playing poker. The card players glance up from their hands with bored expressions.

The last face to turn their way belongs to a slender brunette who'd been facing away from them when they entered. She's somewhere around forty, with long dark hair and curious eyes. "Hello, Sebastian. You look like absolute hell."

* * *

For anyone who doesn't know Duncan Page as well as Bass does, her sarcasm might seem cold. Bass sees the warmth in her eyes, though. He feels the sympathy that lurks behind them. "Thanks," he says, his voice catching.

She walks toward him, wrapping him in a warm hug. Her voice is a whisper against his ear. "So sorry about Connor. How you holding up?"

Bass's eyes close as he thinks about just how well he's _not_ holding up. "I don't know, Duncan. I don't know."

She squeezes him a little tighter. "Anything I can do?"

He shakes his head, gently pushing her away. "Did you get the things I asked for?"

Her gaze bores into his, but she doesn't push. "Don't I always?" She turns her attention to Charlie when she asks Bass her next question. "Gonna introduce me?"

Bass hesitates, glancing between the two women. "Uh, yeah. Duncan, this is Charlotte Matheson. She's Miles's niece. Charlie, this is Duncan Page. She runs the War Clan."

"Nice to meet ya, kid." Duncan motions for both of them to follow as she heads toward a door in the back of the room. She leads them to an office. It's nothing special, but it's tidy. One wall is lined with framed photographs. An old oak desk sits in the middle of the room; a green shaded banker's lamp illuminates the desk's surface with a warm amber glow. Beside the lamp is a small black backpack.

She points at it. "Packed the usual stuff, including an unmarked Colt 45. Need anything else?"

"The cleanup in Flagstaff?"

"Taken care of. You'll have to tell me that story someday."

"Maybe."

"What else do you need?"

Bass's exhausted mind fills with thoughts of Charlie, but he pushes them aside. "Need a couple hours of sleep. Then a makeover – for both of us." He motions between himself and Charlie. "We have to visit Frank. Can't go looking like this."

Something unreadable passes over Duncan's features. "Both of you? You're sure?"

Bass looks at Charlie and seems to consider. "I promised Miles I'd take care of her. Wouldn't let her out of my sight." His eyes glide over to Charlie. Even travel weary and disheveled, she is beautiful. He feels his heart lurch at the thought of anything hurting her. "She'll be fine. I'll take care of her."

Duncan purses her lips and crosses her arms. "And?"

Bass shrugs. "And if she's along, I have a better chance of getting Frank's attention. It's not like he's going to help me just for old time's sake."

Duncan's eyes twinkle. "So you're using Miles Matheson's niece as bait?"

Bass shakes his head no with an irritated jerk even as Charlie blows out a disappointed sigh. "This week just gets better and better," she mutters.

He answers without looking her way. "Not bait. But we both know what Frank likes. She'll hold his interest in a way I can't. If I show up alone, he won't even talk to me."

"Take one of the girls here. I have a few waitresses who Frank would like."

"No. I'm taking her with me. Like I said – need to keep her close. Safe."

Charlie rolls her eyes, exasperated. "Safe? Since I've met you, I've been thrown in a trunk, tied up, gagged, held at gunpoint, stood face to face with a crazy pedophile and watched you murder a guy by snapping his neck. You know where I felt safer? Back home with the drug dealers and the street people I met at the shelter."

Her words hit a little close to home. "Charlie," Bass warns.

She shakes her head. "Don't 'Charlie' me. You need to use me as bait? Fine. Use me. At least be honest about it."

Bass scowls at her but says nothing.

Duncan grins. "I like her. She's feisty." Duncan turns to Bass. "If you're heading over to the Alamo, I assume you want to use my car. I'll have it ready. What about the horse you rode in on?"

"The Cutlass? It was Connor's. Just – could you put it in storage for me?"

"Done. You get the red room. Your things are still there. I trust you remember the way."

"Yeah. I remember."

Duncan glances at her watch. "How much sleep do you need?"

"Two hours should be enough. I'd like to get to the Alamo before dawn."

"What about me?" Charlie asks Bass.

Bass studies her for a moment, suddenly overcome with a desire to take her to his bed, knowing he'd sleep better with her in his arms. He knows that if he did that though, he'd be hard pressed to stop at sleeping. He nods toward his old friend. "Go with Duncan. She'll take good care of you."

Charlie is clearly irritated. He can see it in her expression. "What happened to never letting me out of your sight?"

"You're safe here."

"Whatever." Charlie turns and faces Duncan, arching an eyebrow. "Where exactly, are you planning to take good care of me?"

Duncan smirks and shakes her head. "Follow me, Charlotte."

"It's Charlie."

"I'm sure it is."

* * *

Duncan leads her through a wide corridor. Glass doors on one side face a casino floor. The place is packed with gamblers. Business is good.

They make their way up a wide staircase and down another hallway. Duncan stops in front of an ornate door and smiles at Charlie before grasping the knob. "Elvis stayed here once. So did Sinatra, if you believe the old-timers."

Not waiting for a response, Duncan opens the door to a lavish suite. Everything is decorated in shades of white with gold accents. The bed is king sized and looks as soft as a cloud. It is piled high with fluffy down pillows and pristine white bedding.

Charlie is suddenly overcome with a bone-weary exhaustion. Even with all of the cat naps she's taken, it's been a long time since she slept well. She reaches out to touch the silky soft comforter on the bed but pulls her hand away, glancing at her fingers. "I'm filthy."

Duncan is already walking through the room to an inner door which she opens, revealing a huge bathroom. The floor and walls are white marble. The tub in the center of the room is bigger than Charlie's entire bathroom had been back in Boston. A selection of high end bath products is displayed on an ornate shelf and on one wall; a thick terry cloth robe hangs from an antique brass hook.

"This place feels like a museum. How old is it?" Charlie asks.

"Old enough. This casino was one of the first built in Vegas. Doors opened in 1910. Freemont Street was a hot spot long before the Strip became a tourist destination. It's had different names over the years, but the bones of this place haven't changed much since the beginning. Probably the biggest difference is that we don't operate as a hotel anymore, but we still keep several of the best suites ready for special guests of the casino."

"Like Bass?"

Duncan leans down and starts running hot water into the tub. She glances at Charlie, watching her curiously. "He's more than a special guest. Monroe is an old friend. He's also part owner of the Clan."

This brings Charlie up short. "He's your business partner?"

"Of the mostly silent variety, yes. He lets me make all the decisions and run the daily operations. I'm not surprised he kept it quiet. He's not the kind of person who talks about money."

"I didn't know he had any money."

"Back when his parents died, there was a wrongful death suit. He doesn't talk about it much. I didn't know he had money either til he offered to help fund my dream to buy this place."

Charlie walks closer to the tub. She picks up a bottle of vanilla bubble bath and pours some in. "I hate money. " Her voice is soft but firm as she watches the water churning the liquid soap into bubbles. "It only brings pain."

Duncan cocks an eyebrow in surprise. "You are in the wrong town, kid."

"Probably." Charlie undresses quickly and climbs into the tub; her desire for a bath far outweighing any feeling of modesty she might normally have felt around a stranger. "I don't understand something."

"What?"

"You run a casino. Why did Bass call you to get rid of a dead body?."

"Las Vegas has provided me with a lot of opportunities. This place, for one." She motions to the room around her. "And I also found some old skills useful here."

"What skills?"

"When I was around your age, I worked for a private military contractor. We were working in Iraq and Afghanistan. We did everything that the Feds wouldn't allow their troops to handle." At Charlie's blank stare, Duncan changes track. "Like Blackwater, but smaller."

Charlie shrugs. "What's a Blackwater?"

"Oh my god, you are a child." She shakes her head. "We provided intel, cleared roads, built bridges. We ran pipeline. We did a lot of general contracting work, but we also cleaned up messes that U.S. soldiers made but that they couldn't clean up themselves. Some of my co-workers took care of bigger problems."

Charlie's eyes go wide. "Like assassinations?"

"Nothing you need to worry about. I do some of the clean up stuff now, because occasionally there is a need for it. But mostly I'm a legit businesswoman. I love running this place. The other…. Well, it was all a long time ago. I was working over there when I met Bass and Miles." Duncan tilts her head, changing course. "So, what's the deal with you and Monroe, anyway?"

Charlie settles into the sudsy water with a contented sigh. Her eyes are closed when she answers. "He came through my line at the shelter and his eyes were sad. I remember thinking guys like him are the reason I do what I do. I gave him an apple. Later that night, he grabbed me as I was heading home, and he threw me in his trunk."

"What?" Duncan's brow furrows. "I thought you were kidding before."

"No. Not kidding. Those first couple of days sucked. He was wasted. Talking to himself. Kind of unhinged."

"What changed?"

"He got sick and I took care of him. He stopped drinking so much, and I saw a different side of him, I guess."

"Oh? And what side is that?"

"The side that is grieving over the loss of his child. I know grief. It's one of the reasons I work with the homeless. Everyone deserves help when they need it. Everyone deserves a second chance."

"You hate money, but you like him." It's not a question.

Charlie shrugs. "Doesn't matter if I do. He's made that clear."

"Well, you can leave if you don't want to be here. Sebastian is my partner, but I won't keep you against your will – not even for him. You want to get out of here? Just say the word."

Charlie watches Duncan carefully and shakes her head. "Not going anywhere. Not yet. Going to see this through."

Duncan struggles to hide a knowing smile. She doesn't succeed, but Charlie's distracted by piles of bubbles and doesn't notice. "Define ' _this_ '. Why was Monroe in a shelter to begin with?"

"He was looking for me. Someone asked him to take me to LA. I don't think he'd have done any of it if he wasn't so messed up about Connor. He thinks he can trade me for answers about his son's death."

"Trade?"

"Yeah. See? I was bait way before we got to Vegas."

"I don't really think that Monroe would…" Duncan trails off, suddenly unsure. Bass has been through so much – maybe... When she speaks again, she changes course. "What do you mean, answers? Answers from whom? That guy in Flagstaff?"

Charlie sighs. "No. It was my mom. She asked him to get me. Promised him information if he delivers. It's a long story."

"Your mom? Jesus." Duncan shakes her head and walks toward the door. "Listen kid, get clean. Get some sleep. One of my people will be up later to doll you up."

"Okay. Whatever."

Duncan starts to walk away, but stops when Charlie says, "Hey, wait."

"Yeah, kid?"

"Did you and Bass ever…"

"Wiggle our eyebrows at each other? No. He's always been a good friend and nothing more."

"What about Miles? Something Bass said when he was on the phone with you… you two have some history?"

Duncan grins and her eyes sparkle. "Bass was like the brother I never head. Your uncle and I were a different story."

"Tell me about it?"

Duncan shakes her head no.

Charlie processes this, narrowing her eyes before nodding with acceptance. "Did you ever meet Connor? Shelly?"

Duncan sighs and lets go of the door knob. Clearly she's not going anywhere yet. She leans against the smooth marble wall, crossing her arms. "Yes to both."

"What was he like with Shelly?"

Duncan watches Charlie for a long time in silence before she answers. "He was happy, kid. I don't know what else to tell you. He loved her and he was really happy and when she died it was like his world imploded on him. Miles said it was like when his folks died, but worse."

"And how did he handle losing her?"

"Not well. He took a leave from the base where he'd been an instructor. Left Connor with some friends. Came down here for a while. Drank himself into a stupor. Fought with anyone who looked at him sideways. Eventually, he found a way to channel some of that anger - did some amateur boxing and mixed martial arts. He was good at it."

"Then what?"

"He finally had enough, I guess. Maybe knowing Connor needed him, helped. Whatever it was, he went back home. Went back to teaching. Connor was his life from then on. Bass didn't sign up for another tour till after Connor joined the army. I think the thought of being alone was too much."

"But now Connor is gone."

"Yeah, now Connor is gone."

Neither of the women says anything for a while. Finally Charlie speaks. Her voice is quiet. "Thanks, for letting me stay here and for talking to me. For everything."

"No problem." Duncan puts her hand on the doorknob, pausing to glance over her shoulder. "Hey Charlie?"

"Yeah?"

"Bass is tougher than he looks. He might just make it through this. Maybe there's a chance…"

"He's taking me to my Mom as soon as we're done here. Probably not enough time to make a difference."

"I saw how he looked at you, Charlie. Maybe you're wrong."

"Maybe I'm right." Charlie watches as Duncan leaves, quietly shutting the door behind her. She sinks slowly into the fragrant water, her mind muddled with thoughts of Bass Monroe and worry over whatever is coming next.

* * *

Will Strausser slouches behind the wheel of his beloved Goat as it sails down the dark desert highway. The warm desert air blows through his shaggy gray hair. He loves driving this car. He loves being with the guys. He loves the mother-fucking adventure of it all (well, except for Bass going off the rails, but otherwise…)

He glances at his companions and smiles. They are both asleep – Miles in the passenger seat and Jeremy sprawled out in the back.

His headlights flash off a sign that says Las Vegas 200 miles, and his smile widens. In this moment, he realizes he hasn't been this happy in years. He reaches back in his memory bank for the last time he'd felt this damn good. His first tour, maybe? Those twins in Jersey?

Yeah. The twins in Jersey. That was it.

The stereo hums through Strausser's veins, and the grin on his face stretches from ear to ear. When he speaks, he keeps his voice low so as not to wake the others. "Vegas, baby!"

* * *

It's 3 a.m., and night has embraced Sin City like a drunken lover. The bar at the War Clan casino is a very busy place, a perfect mixture of dark shadows and dull amber light. The bottles that line the back of the bar are varied and full. The tables and barstools are filled with a smattering of tourists and regulars – each hovering somewhere between tipsy and drunk. The sounds of clinking glasses, low laughter and Old Blue Eyes playing on the sound system almost cover the never ending slot machine bells from the game floor beyond. Almost.

In true Vegas fashion, everyone minds their own business, including Bass Monroe who sits at the bar, nursing a whiskey.

Duncan slides into a barstool next to Bass's. She lets her gaze trail up and down his form. He's clean-shaven and his dark curls are cropped short. He's wearing a charcoal gray button down, open at the neck, black dress slacks and Italian loafers. A silver Rolex is on his wrist. "You cleaned up nice."

He shakes his head. "Feels weird."

"To be clean?" She chuckles and shakes her head.

"To wear clothes that I last wore when I went out for drinks with Connor."

Duncan sobers instantly. "Sorry. I should have brought in new things."

"No. It's fine." He's staring into his whiskey and doesn't look her way when he speaks. "She okay?"

Duncan grins and nods to the open staircase that connects the bar to the upper floors of the casino. "How about you see for yourself?"

Bass looks up and sucks in a harsh breath. Charlie is descending the staircase slowly, her lean curves draped with a clinging silver dress that shimmers as she moves. The hem hits mid-thigh, showing off long tan legs. The bodice of the dress is modest, but when she turns, he can see that the back is not. Her hair looks blonder and is piled high with little tendrils hanging around her shoulders. She's wearing makeup that accentuates her large blue eyes and perfect lips.

Bass stands and walks her way without conscious thought. Charlie gets to the foot of the stairs and hesitates there. She's wearing stilettos that are the same shimmery silver as her dress. The heels bring her almost to Bass's height and he looks into her eyes, noting his own surprise mirrored there. Surprise and something else. Something heated. "Charlie."

"Bass."

Duncan walks up and grins at them. "Haven't witnessed that level of eye fuckery in a very long time. Do you two need a minute? Maybe a room?"

Charlie's gaze flicks over to Duncan, as if surprised to notice anyone else is even there. "Uh, no. Can I get a drink, though?"

Duncan nods. "Of course. Your drinks are on the house."

Bass watches Charlie walk toward the bar. Her steps are careful. Measured. He figures she's not used to wearing heels. His eyes travel up her long legs and over the curve of her ass. The back of her dress dips so low that it's abundantly clear she's not wearing much underneath.

"Hell, Duncan. Am I making a mistake?"

"Tons of them, it would seem. Want to narrow down the scope of your question a bit?" She catches the bartender's eye and he scurries over with a dirty martini. She takes a sip, eyeing Monroe thoughtfully.

"Taking her to Frank. It's a mistake, isn't it?"

"Obviously. Seems you have your reasons though."

"Yeah."

"Don't suppose one of those reasons is just that you care? That maybe you want to keep her close because you like her? Because you are afraid to leave her out of your sight for long?"

Bass looks at Duncan then, his eyes sad and wary. "Doesn't matter what I want. Some things are out of reach. Charlie deserves more than I have to offer. She deserves to be happy. Free."

"Says the man who kidnapped her and threw her in his trunk."

* * *

Charlie leans against the bar and smiles when the bartender walks her way.

"Hello, Beautiful. What can I get you?"

"Do you have Corona?"

"Of course." He sits a frosty bottle in front of her, a slim slice of lime wedged in the neck. "My name is Jeff. What's yours?"

She glances over at Bass. He's deep in conversation with Duncan, and now that he's not looking at her, she takes him in. The changes are… astounding. She remembers the day she'd met him. He'd been disheveled and dirty. Broken and limping. Aching and wasted.

Not now.

He's finally wearing clothes that fit, showing off broad shoulders and narrow hips. The beard is gone and the curls are trimmed and tame. He looks fifteen years younger. He looks alive and vital.

He's stunning.

"Your name?" Bartender Jeff asks again. He glances over at Bass and then back at Charlie. "Oh, I get it. You're with Monroe."

Charlie takes a sip of her beer and shakes her head. "It's not like that."

"So, you're available?" Jeff leans in on his elbows and flashes her a coy smile. "I get off at six. You could stick around and we could…" he shrugs, allowing Charlie's imagination to fill in the blanks.

Charlie takes a sip, watching him. He's cute, but he's not stunning. He's not… Bass. She opens her mouth to let him down easy, but stops when she feels a warm hand slide possessively across her lower back. Her lips snap shut.

"Not available to you," Bass says. His voice is a low rumble; his eyes are cold and hard as he stares down the bartender.

Jeff takes a hasty step back. "Sorry, Mr. Monroe. I meant no disrespect."

Bass nods curtly. "Come on, Charlie. We have to go."

"You need to make up your fucking mind," Charlie says, brushing past Bass.

He grabs her elbow and pulls gently until she swivels and turns. "What are you talking about?" he asks.

Her voice is a harsh whisper. "When we got here, you couldn't push me away fast enough. Now I get a little attention and you go all caveman. You can't have it both ways. Either you want me or you don't. _Pick. One_." She pulls her elbow back from his grasp.

Duncan makes her way to where they are standing. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah. We're fine." Bass runs a hand through his short curls. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have –"

"Whatever." She sounds tired. "Is it time to go?"

He nods and then looks at Duncan. "Listen, if we aren't back at a reasonable time…"

"Don't worry. I already have guys mingling on the floor at the Alamo. At least one will be in Frank's poker game. They are all on notice. If you need anything at all, all you have to do is raise the alarm."

"Good. Let's go."

Duncan turns to Charlie. "Be careful, kid. Stick close to him."

Charlie nods before allowing Bass to usher her from the casino. They retrace their steps back to the parking garage. The difference is that they go to the third level, which is much nicer than where they'd parked Connor's old car.

Bass pulls a key ring from his pocket and hits a button. Brake lights on a midnight blue Tesla S blink. As they approach, Charlie tilts her head. "This is Duncan's?"

"Yeah. It's her baby." He opens her door and offers a hand. She takes it and allows him to help her get in.

They settle into the supple leather seats. Bass taps a few buttons on the large touchscreen, and an old Miles Davis song begins to play. The sound system in the Tesla is a vast improvement over what the Cutlass had to offer. The music is soft and sexy, and Charlie can feel each perfect note settling into her soul, calming her nerves as they drive.

She glances over at Bass who looks amazing even in the muted flashes of street lights. She picks at the hem of her dress absently, and for a moment Charlie lets herself pretend this evening is something more than what it is. To anyone looking at them, the assumption would clearly be that they are on a date.

She bites her lip, willing that thought to fade. "Tell me about Frank Blanchard," she says.

"He's not a good guy."

Charlie sighs. "Yeah, I picked up on that. What else?"

"He owns the Alamo. It's one of the biggest casinos on the strip. He has a few smaller casinos scattered around the city, and I think there's a winery in California."

"And that's a bad thing?" Charlie asks.

"Those are his legitimate businesses. He has… others."

"Like what?"

"Like human trafficking, prostitution, drugs, guns, murder for hire."

"Okay. So which of those things do you think Neville was involved in? Why was he taking all that money to Blanchard?"

"No idea. Blanchard is a loan shark on top of everything else. Could be as simple as Neville having bad luck at cards? Hoping Frank will shed some light on that."

"So how do you know him, anyway? Were you friends?"

"No. He hates my guts."

"Why? Did you throw him in a trunk too?"

He looks over and their eyes meet and hold. The corner of her mouth tilts up in a mischievous smile. He doesn't dwell on the way that smile brings his every nerve ending to life. Bass shrugs. "When I lived out here all those years ago, I did some amateur boxing. I was pretty good."

"And he didn't like your right hook?"

"He liked it too much. Bet a lot of money on me because I hadn't lost a match."

"But your winning streak?"

"Had an expiration date. Frank said I threw the fight. Everyone else knew that wasn't true, so it all blew over, but Frank has a good memory and it was a lot of money. He probably won't be happy to see me."

"Are you going to tell him what happened to Neville?"

"No details. Just that he's not around anymore. We'll see if Frank knows anything, give him his money and leave."

* * *

Bass pulls the Tesla into the VIP circle drive in front of the Alamo's main entrance. Gold columns line the high stone walls that face the drive. Bright lights shimmer off huge glass doors which are framed by hulking casino employees in pristine black suits.

The valet takes the Tesla away, and Bass loosely wraps his arm around Charlie's waist, leading her down a blood red carpet runner toward the entrance. The meaty doormen open the doors as Bass and Charlie approach. Once inside the Alamo, they are assaulted by twangy country music that is almost overshadowed by the shrill ringing of slot machines, but not quite. Twenty foot high Old West themed murals decorate every wall and Charlie is pretty sure she's never seen this many cactus plants in one place. Some are living plants nestled in big clay pots. Others are neon.

Crystal chandeliers hang from the canopy. Charlie bites back a laugh when she sees that on closer inspection, most of the 'crystals' are cactus shaped pieces of glass.

Charlie tears her gaze from their gaudy surroundings and notices for the first time, that Bass' hands are empty. "Thought you were bringing the money?" She asks, leaning in close.

He catches a whiff of her shampoo and commits the fragrance to memory. It is jasmine and vanilla and very _Charlie_. "The money is in the car. I want to see what he says before I tell him we have it."

"Okay."

They've barely gotten onto the gambling floor when they are approached by a waitress with a big toothy smile and unreasonably large breasts. She's wearing a tiny brown bikini top, fringed leather skirt and a coonskin hat. Charlie tries not to laugh as Bass orders drinks for them both.

The waitress walks away and Bass turns to Charlie. "What?"

"This place is a joke. It's like Kim Kardashian threw up on Davy Crockett."

He's felt tense ever since they'd pulled into the Alamo's drive, but Charlie's amusement helps him relax. "Yeah. It's a bit much, but that's Frank for you. He's also….a bit much."

"Is that any goddamned way to talk about your host? I expected better from you, Monroe." The voice is low and heavy with a Texan drawl that is far more authentic than anything else in the Alamo Casino.

Frank is a jowly man with wispy white hair and watery eyes. In spite of all the 'no smoking' signs that hang everywhere; a smoldering cigar is clamped tight between his teeth. Some ash has fallen onto his red silk shirt. Blanchard doesn't seem to know it's there, or maybe he just doesn't care.

"Frank," Bass says, his jaw clenched.

"I was watching my monitors. Saw you drive up and I came right down. What in the hell brings you here, anyway? Gonna fight?"

"I don't fight anymore."

"So, you're here to pay me back all that money I lost on your fight?"

"Jesus, Frank. Get over it. That was years ago. Came here to talk."

Frank scowls at Bass's answer before turning to face Charlie, eyeing her hungrily. "Well, I don't particularly want to hear anything you have to say, Monroe, but her –" He nods at Charlie. "I want to hear what she has to say." He takes a step closer, reaching out, running a sweaty finger along her shoulder.

Bass feels Charlie shudder, and he pulls her back a step.

Frank ignores Bass completely. "You a moaner, girlie? Oh yeah, I bet you are."

Bass snaps his fingers in Blanchard's face, grabbing his attention. "She's with me, Frank. You don't touch her."

"You are irritating me, Monroe. Why would you bring this hot little piece of ass if you weren't going to share?"

Bass tightens his grip around her. "Can we go to your office? I have business to discuss with you."

Frank pouts theatrically and then shrugs, suddenly bored. "I suppose I can spare five minutes. Come with me."

They follow in his wake. Frank appears to know all the waitress's names by heart and smacks every female ass he can reach. They exit the main game floor, walking past several large rooms, featuring a seemingly endless menu of gambling options. They go up a flight of stairs, walk past a huge golden fountain and through a marble foyer. Blanchard opens a giant engraved door and leads them into his office.

One wall is solid surveillance monitors. A series of paintings hangs on another wall – nudes, of course. Frank's desk is as big as a bed, and Frank plops down in a leather wingback chair behind it with a grunt. He motions for them to sit on the chairs opposite. They have barely sat down when another man enters. He is slender and twitchy. His smile is lecherous.

Frank nods to the newcomer. "You remember my right-hand-man, Gould?"

Bass ignores Gould completely, squares his shoulders and gets right to it. "I need a favor, Frank."

The older man narrows his eyes. "Pretty damned sure I do not owe _you_ any favors."

"That's true, but – "

"But what?"

"It's just – I'm wondering if you know a guy named Jason Neville? I hear you might."

Blanchard's annoyance is instantly replaced by a cold and calculated curiosity. He carefully puts out the stub of his cibar, glances at Gould and then back at Bass. "I know a lot of guys, Monroe. Why is this one so important?"

"This guy Neville. He shot my kid. Killed him. I'm trying to find out why. Heard you might have some info on him."

Frank scowls. "How the hell would I know anything about your kid?"

"Maybe Neville owed you money?"

Frank narrows his eyes. "What about money? Did someone tell you this Neville owes me money?"

"Just wondering, Frank. I'm aware of what you do here. I know that sometimes people owe you money. That's all."

Frank tents his fingers in front of his chin and watches them with narrowed eyes. "Let's say this Neville owes me money. Let's say he owes me _a lot_ of money. Maybe he has a bit of a gambling problem and borrowed against a lucky streak that only existed in his empty, stupid head."

Bass feels his pulse thunder, but he keeps his voice even. "Okay, let's say that."

Frank stands, leaning forward with his weight on his palms. "Do you know where this hypothetical money is? Because payment is fucking due, and I'm ready to start charging late fees."

Bass's jaw tightens. "Let's review, Frank. I don't owe you anything. Just wanted to see what you knew."

Blanchard shakes his head. "Color me naïve but this feels way too convenient. No way do you come in here asking about my money on the day it's fucking due, without knowing where the hell it is."

"Calm down, Frank," Bass says softly.

"Calm down? Bullshit. I want to know what in the hell is going on here? Maybe I think you should pay me the money yourself since you're here and you know so much about my business dealings – about my money." Bass watches as white bubbles of spittle collect in the corner of Frank's lips. His pupils are wide, making his eyes look black. "Neville's not here but you are. _You_ can pay me. Hell, maybe you could fight for me. Maybe a week? You look good. Probably make some money off you. Not nearly enough, but it would be a start."

"Not going to fight again. Not now. Not ever."

Frank takes a handkerchief and wipes his mouth. He seems to have calmed down some, but his eyes are still a little wild. His gaze settles on Charlie's tits and he licks his lips, hissing softly before he speaks. "What about her? I could get a nice return on a sweet piece of ass like hers."

Bass feels fear grip his heart. The look in Blanchard's eyes reminds Bass of Tom Neville in that shed. Bass shakes his head. "No. Like I told you, Neville killed my kid. He was not my friend. And she's not available as a payment method, regardless."

"That's a pity – about the girl, I mean. She looks… tasty." He holds her gaze and points to his crotch. "Hey there, Girlie. Maybe you want to ride my big Texan dick? I'll let you work off some of what your friend owes me."

Charlie recoils and Bass feels his entire body tighten with anger. He leans forward, gripping the edge of Frank's desk. "Blanchard, I don't owe you shit. I'm here because I want to know what Neville's connection was to you. I want to find out why he killed my son." Bass's hands are tight fists and a vein is throbbing at his temple. "And don't ever talk to her like that."

"I'll talk to her however I damn well please. This is my fucking place. And for the record, I don't give a rat's ass about your kid. One less Monroe in the world sounds about right to me."

Gould stifles a laugh, and Bass feels rage building in his gut, hot and thick. His vision blurs, and Connor's final moments flash through his head like a kaleidoscope. He sucks in a breath, wanting nothing more than he wants to reach for the gun tucked in the back of his waistband..

Charlie puts a hand on Bass's arm and squeezes reassuringly before breaking her silence. "You are an asshole, Mr. Blanchard."

Frank grins but his eyes are narrowed to slits. "Well, this asshole wants his damned money." He points at his crotch again. "That is, unless I can change your mind about this."

Charlie grimaces. "I wouldn't touch your dick if you were the last man on earth."

Blanchard leans forward, his eyes cold and evil. "I guess we'll see about that, won't we?"

Bass grasps Charlie's hand and heads toward the door, pulling her along. "We're leaving."

"This isn't over, Monroe," Blanchard calls out after them.

"Yeah, it is."

* * *

They don't speak on the way back to Freemont Street. Bass parks Duncan's Tesla in its spot. He helps Charlie out of the car, and he holds her hand as he leads her through the tunnel and into the War Clan for the second time that day.

They walk through the halls and to the floor where Charlie's room is, but Bass puts a hand on her shoulder, and eases them to a stop. His fingers drop from her shoulder to her hand. He grasps her fingers in his and stares at their joined hands. When he speaks his voice is quiet and rough.

"I'm sorry about that. I shouldn't have taken you. I know Frank is an animal, but he's gotten worse."

"It's okay. I'm just glad we made it out of there without you killing him." She smiles, but it falls flat. "Good thing you didn't take your gun."

Bass looks at her oddly. "I did take it."

Her eyes are wide. "Oh. After what he said about Connor, I thought…"

"It wasn't the same. He pissed me off, but he wasn't going to hurt you."

"Well, whatever your reasons, I'm glad you handled it the way you did, and I'll be glad to never see that guy again."

Bass feels unease eating at his gut, but he nods. "Same here."

She nods toward her end of the hallway and lets go of his fingers. "So, I'm uh… going to bed."

Charlie has taken a few steps when he speaks. "Earlier, you said I had to pick between wanting you and pushing you away."

"Yeah." Charlie stops and turns slowly. She can see how conflicted he is. She can tell that even having this conversation pains him. "It's okay. Don't worry about…"

He ignores her words, pressing on. "The thing is that I have to push you away because I do want you. But I can't want you. I can't be with you. I can't be with anyone because that would mean getting close and I just -" He shakes his head. "I can't. When I let anybody in - when I care - I get crushed. When I was lying in the VA and they were working on my leg, I promised myself that I'd never allow myself to love anyone again."

Charlie frowns. "I never said you had to love me."

He flashes a smile that is as dazzling as it is sad. His voice catches. "Yeah, but that's the guy I am, Charlie. I fall in love easy and then when it falls apart, so do I. I don't think I could survive losing another person I care about."

"So, you pushed me away earlier because you care for me or think you might eventually?"

"Yeah. I guess so."

"But you do still plan to take me to my mom and get those answers she claims to have?"

He straightens his shoulders. "I have to do it. You know that. I figure we'll head out for LA tomorrow."

Charlie tilts her head, once again gazing into his eyes. "So, we have tonight. You aren't going to fall in love with me in one night. Even I am not _that_ amazing."

He chuckles and she sees a flash of hope in his blue eyes. "What are you getting at?"

She steps toward him, taking his hand again. "I don't want to be alone, Bass. I'm going to be alone after this is all over and that's okay because I'm used to it, but tonight I don't want to be alone."

Bass watches Charlie, his eyes searching hers. Finally, he nods and leads her down the hall in the direction opposite of her room. He comes to a stop in front of a door and fishes a key card from his pocket. He opens the door with his free hand, never letting go of her fingers.

Once inside, he tosses the keycard onto a low table. Charlie notes that this room is similar to hers, but instead of shades of white, this room is decorated in shades of red.

The door closes with a soft click, and Bass pulls her close. His mouth descends and Charlie wilts into him. It's different – kissing him without the beard, but not bad different. As he deepens the kiss, Charlie feels heat slice through her like a lightning bolt. His hands gently caress her bare back before settling on her ass, grasping her through the silver fabric of her dress.

Bass leads her to the bed and gently pushes her down on her back. He crawls in to lie at her side, raising up on one elbow, leaning close. "Charlie, are you sure about this?"

"Yeah I am. Are you?"

"I don't want to be alone tonight either."

She nods mutely in agreement. The only light comes from a muted lamp beside the bed. It casts a warm glow. Charlie reaches out, tracing the lines of his smooth jaw with a finger. She knows this won't be like last time, and it's not just that they look different on the outside. It's something deeper. Something has shifted.

In her heart, Charlie knows this is the last time she'll feel his skin under her fingertips. Knows she'll never again get the chance to brush and stroke and awaken goosebumps along his flesh. So she savors every heated glance, every touch, every sound he makes, committing it all to memory.

Bass nuzzles her neck, sucking at her pulse point before moving farther down. He breathes her in, and she groans at the feel of his breath brushing against the swell of her breast. He nips at her cleavage, trailing small kisses across the shimmery silver fabric of her dress.

Bass pulls away, kneeling between her legs, watching her writhe with need. Her cheeks are flushed and her chest heaves with labored breathing.

He reaches out, slipping a finger under the edge of the lace panties, following the edge of the lace down and between her legs. The silk that covers her slit is drenched and he leans close, inhaling the musky scent of her arousal. He needs to taste her, so he carefully rolls the black lace over her hips and down her thighs. She purrs under his touch - the purr becomes a cry of surprise when without warning, he tastes her.

His motions are slow at first. Exploratory. He licks her from drenched opening to her clit, sucking gently on the little nub while Charlie bucks her hips, wanting more. He presses a forearm across her pelvis, stilling her movements even as he increases his own.

Charlie's pussy is seeping, and Bass laps up her juices tenderly. He returns his attention to her clit, sucking and licking it until she nears climax, only to pull back before she can get there. He slides two finger between her velvety folds; he fucks her with his fingers at an excruciatingly slow pace, taking turns watching her and licking her clit.

His face is buried in her pussy when she comes. Her thighs clamp down tight around his ears, and she shudders around him, soaking his lips and chin with her orgasm. "Oh God," she moans breathlessly.

He makes his way back up her body, kissing a trail over the hollow of her belly. He pauses to pull her dress all the way off. She lifts enough so that he can slide it over her head. Charlie has barely fallen back onto the mattress when he's sucking at a nipple, rolling the other with clever fingers.

Charlie pulls him away from her tits. Their eyes meet as he hovers above her, his weight supported by his forearms on each side of her head. He kisses her carefully, reveling in the way she tastes and the way she bites at his lip and sucks at his tongue. He deepens the kiss. Teeth clash as their movements become more frenzied.

She reaches for his shirt, unbuttoning blindly, not willing to stop the kiss just to look at buttons. He helps, shrugging out of the shirt and tossing it aside. Charlie is already working on his belt and his pants, and soon they are gone as well.

He presses his body against hers, feeling the heat that radiates from her flesh. His cock is painfully hard where it rests between them. He ruts against her belly as he kisses her again. The head of his dick is swollen with need and seeping.

Charlie rolls her hips, and he loses whatever grasp on self control he's held up to this point. Bass takes one of her legs, pulling it up high at his side, opening her up. "Charlie," he whispers against her temple as he lines his cock up at her entrance and pushes in slowly.

She hisses with satisfaction as he slides into her slippery pussy. He hits bottom and she groans, lifting her hips for more. He thrusts again, the flared head of his cock bumping against her cervix. She leans in close, kissing him urgently. He picks up the pace, fucking her with an intensity that brings them both closer.

Charlie bites down on the throbbing cord in his neck and the feel of her teeth on his flesh, sends Bass into overdrive. He grasps her hips for leverage and pounds her. They are a sweaty, grunting mess and neither of them cares.

She feels another orgasm cresting and scrapes her fingernails down his back as she lets go. Her body quakes and shudders as her needy cunt grasps at his cock. He shoves in as deep as he possibly can for one final thrust before pulling out. His come spurts hot and thick against her inner thighs.

Rolling to his back at her side, Bass stares at the ceiling. Charlie is equally winded and they lie in silence as their bodies settle.

"That was…" Charlie doesn't have the right words.

"Yeah. It was."

After a while, Charlie reaches for his hand. "Hey, Bass?"

"Yeah?"

"What's next? I know you aren't going to kill yourself. I know you changed your mind."

"You think?"

"You did. I saw it."

"Yeah, maybe."

"So what will you do after you find out why that guy killed Connor?"

Bass closes his eyes. "I don't know. Haven't thought that far ahead."

"It doesn't matter what you do as long as you're around to do it."

He shrugs. "What about you? After you meet with your mom, are you going back to Boston?"

"Probably. Or maybe I'll start over somewhere new."

The room has begun to fill with natural morning light and Bass pulls her close. "Starting over isn't a bad thing."

She doesn't say anything, but he can see the sadness in her eyes. He leans up on one elbow, stroking his finger along her collarbone. "Listen, I'm sorry for how this all started. I'm sorry for what I did and for how I did it."

"It's okay, You don't have to be sorry. I get why you thought you had to do it. I hated you at first and I was scared, but neither of those things are true now." Charlie says, pressing a finger to his lips.

He kisses her fingertip softly. "Just listen, okay?"

She nods and he continues. "Charlie, I'm sorry for what I did. I'm sorry that I can't give you more, but I'm not sorry that it happened."

Charlie lays her head on his chest. She can hear the thump of his heartbeat. She's going to miss this. Miss him. "I'm not sorry either."

* * *

 **A/N I can't believe I'm even saying this, but... there is only one chapter left. It will include a lot more of 'the guys' who will be shoing up in Vegas very soon, as well as more Duncan, more Blanchard, the moment where Bass delivers Charlie to Rachel, a little epiphany on a California beach, some angst, an epic show-down of sorts and of course...a happily ever after. I do hope you'll stick around, because I'm pretty excited about where this one is headed.**

 **As always, this continues to be a birthday fic for Romeo.**

 **A huge thank you to TexasRevoFan for insight and feedback and beta magic, galore. Also a special thanks to WildIrish who has championed this story from day one and kept me going even when my muse was hiding.**

 **Thanks for reading and as always, leave a comment if you have a moment. I do love to hear from you. -Lemon**


	10. Chapter 10: Las Vegas to Los Angeles

**A/N: So I lied. There will be eleven chapters. A huge heartfelt thank you to the handful of folks still reading this story. You are amazing and wonderful and I appreciate you more than I can say.**

 **I started this story in January of last year as a birthday gift to my friend Romeo. She's a sweetheart who probably didn't think she'd see another birthday roll around before I finished this story, but alas... Wishing you a very Happy Birthday for both last year and this year, friend. Enjoy.**

* * *

 **Las Vegas to Los Angeles (270 miles - 4 hours)**

Bass only knows it's noon because the clock on his nightstand tells him so. The deep wine red curtains that hang over the hotel windows are thick and heavy, blocking out any natural light. The sheets on the bed are an even deeper red, wrapped tightly around his bare legs. Blearily, he reaches for Charlie, but her side of the bed is empty and cold.

He rolls to his back and stares at the ceiling. Empty and cold. He'll need to get used to that. Again.

His mind wanders to last night and how very occupied and warm this bed had been. Sighing, he sits up and throws the sheets aside. Nothing can be gained from dwelling on what was.

He showers quickly, pulling on jeans and a henley from his closet. He's told Duncan on numerous occasions that keeping a room for him was ridiculous, but right now he's thankful to be surrounded by familiar things. Bass figures it's one of the perks to being Duncan's business partner and co-owner of the clan. He picks absently at the cuff of the shirt, remembering the last time he'd worn it...

 _He and Connor had been in Vegas for a brief holiday. They'd been drinking and laughing when for some reason Bass's mood had sobered._

" _Connor?"_

" _Yeah?"_

" _You should find a girl - someone special. Settle down. Have some kids."_

 _Connor's eyes had twinkled and his smile had broadened. "What, you mean right now?"_

 _Bass had shaken his head. "No, I mean...someday. I want you to have it all. I want you to be happy."_

 _Connor's smile had faded at the serious tone in his dad's voice. He'd reached out and put his hand on Bass's arm. "Dad, that's what I want for you too."_

 _Bass shrugged. "I did have it. You know that."_

" _Maybe you could have it again?"_

" _No, Connor. Love like that - what I had with Shelly - that doesn't happen twice."_

Bass shrugs off the long ago memory and makes his way downstairs to the War Clan Bar.

The lighting in the bar never changes, and there are no clocks on the walls. It could be 3 a,m. It could be 3 p.m. Bass's stomach growls, reminding him that it's lunch time. He considers ordering from the menu. The burgers are good here, if his memory serves, but then so is the whiskey. He gets the bartender's attention and orders a drink.

The bar is fairly busy for noon. Several tables are full of sunburned tourists eating cheeseburgers and guzzling cold beer. At the end of the bar, two showgirls, who have probably been kicking up their heels since the Reagan administration, are arguing about the new Celine Dion show. Locals sit quietly, staring into their drinks or checking their phones. Bass hears a laugh that jolts his gaze in the direction of the far corner of the bar.

Lounging back in a chair, laughing like he doesn't have a care in the world; is none other than Miles Matheson. Bass's oldest friend is grinning at someone, but Bass can't see who because a tourist in a fluorescent yellow pullover is blocking the view.

When the tourist moves, Bass sees Charlie is sitting across from her uncle. Of course it's Charlie that has brought such happiness to Miles. Bass's heart lurches at the sight of her. Of him. Of the two of them together. She's clearly happy and relaxed, wearing one of the tank tops he'd bought her on the road along with her faded jeans. She's telling a story, waving her hands, and soon they are both laughing again. Miles and Charlie have a familiarity between them that stirs an empty place in Bass's gut. He used to have that with Connor.

Now he has nothing. He considers walking over but decides against doing so. Instead, he slides onto the nearest barstool. There's no reason to rush the reunion with his old friend. After all, the odds are high that Miles won't be all that happy to see Bass after all that has happened with Charlie. His drink arrives, and he takes a sip before ordering a burger and fries. Bass tries his best not to stare at the other side of the bar.

Duncan appears at his side. "Hey."

Bass takes a sip from his glass and then glances at Duncan. "How long have they been talking?" he asks.

"An hour, maybe." Duncan looks intrigued as she watches the corner table. "She's a good liar, your Charlie."

Bass cocks an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Well, she could have told her uncle Miles, who if you'll remember is a respected _member of law enforcement_ , the same story she told me. She could have said you hit her and threw her in a car trunk, that you drugged her and tied her up, that you pointed a gun at her, that you killed a guy while she watched…"

Bass scowls. "What did she tell him?"

"Told him that you came to see her in Boston and that you introduced yourself. She told him that you asked if you could give her a ride to LA because her Mom wanted to see her." Duncan takes a sip of her drink, and flashes him a smile before continuing. "She told you were a goddamned gentleman the whole time."

Bass glances over at Charlie. She's laughing so hard at something Miles has said, that she's wiping away tears. He turns back to his drink. "I didn't ask her to lie."

"Well, that isn't even all of it."

"What else?"

"She told him the clean up you guys called me for was because she killed a guy who was trying to attack her. Said you weren't even there just then. You found her after and were worried she'd get arrested so you helped her by calling me."

Bass shakes his head. "That's not at all what happened."

Duncan rolls her eyes. "Obviously. But Miles believed her story from start to finish. Like I said, your girl is convincing. Miles said he understood why you guys handled it the way you did. Told her that he _owes_ you."

"Why would she say all that?"

"She's got it bad for you, Monroe."

He shakes his head. "I don't understand why..."

"Me either." Duncan smirks. "My guess is that you are a much better lay than I'd ever imagined."

Bass can't help a small smile that passes over his features. "Nah. That's not it."

"Maybe it's just who she is. She likes to help people and she's just nice. Too nice for you."

"I know."

"I think maybe she's in love with you."

He shrugs, never taking his eyes off Charlie. "It's nothing. She's young. She'll get over it."

Duncan shakes her head. "That is not how women work at all."

"It doesn't matter. I don't want her to love me."

"So fucking her brains out last night was an excellent idea."

"Jesus, Duncan. It wasn't like that."

"Oh really?" Duncan's eyes twinkle. "Cause I went up to see how she was doing and her bed hadn't been slept in."

"I mean, it was just a physical thing. Didn't mean anything. She deserves someone less broken."

"Don't we all? Doesn't mean that's what she wants though."

* * *

Jeremy Baker and Will Strausser walk along Freemont Street. Even in broad daylight, the place is full on lit. Sounds and lights and energy make the street feel like a living thing. The two old friends have been making the most of it. Jeremy had lost $800.00 on blackjack at the Dusty Nickel. Will had won a cool grand playing Texas Hold'em at Sally's. They've decided to break for lunch, and track Miles down. When they'd gotten to town, Miles went straight to the War Clan while his two friends had chosen to take a bit of a break before making an appearance.

They wind through the familiar rows of slot machines before walking into the bar at the back. They spot Miles right away, talking to a sexy girl with long honey colored curls. They are heading his way when Jeremy spots Bass at the bar.

He nudges Will with his elbow and the two change course, heading for the bar.

Jeremy taps Bass on the shoulder. Bass turns and Jeremy wraps his friend in a tight embrace. "We've been worried about you. How ya doing?" He pulls away, his hands on Bass's shoulders. Jeremy takes in the way he looks. "You look better. Good, even. Last time I saw you…."

"I am better." Bass turns to Strausser. "Thanks for letting me crash at your place. I was a mess."

"You are always welcome. You know that."

Jeremy nods in the direction of Miles. "Talk to him yet?"

"No. When I came down, he was talking to Charlie. I'm giving them a minute."

Strausser whistles. "That's Charlie? Damn."

"Don't," Bass says. His voice is cold.

Duncan leans around Bass, catching the attention of the new arrivals. "Boys," she says.

Will grins and moves in fast, hugging her tight. "You are still as sexy as hell! Miles make a move yet? Cause if he didn't, I'd like to throw my hat in the ring."

She pushes Will away. "Down, boy." Her gaze wanders to Miles. "We talked for a minute."

"Well, let's go over there now." Jeremy says. "I want to meet Charlie."

Will and Jeremy head toward where Miles and Charlie are sitting. Bass trails behind. Duncan begs off, saying she has something she needs to do.

Charlie glances up, and is the first to notice the men approaching. She nods in their direction to alert MIles. He smiles and stands. "Hey guys, this is my niece, Charlie."

Jeremy moves in to shake Charlie's hand and this is when Miles sees Bass. "Hey," he says, staring curiously at his old friend. "You look a hell of a lot better than the last time I saw you. Hell, you look almost like your usual stuff."

Bass shrugs. "I'm okay."

Miles frowns. "How about the other? Still depressed and all that?"

"Well, my kid is still dead, so yeah. Still depressed."

"Sorry. I didn't mean -"

Bass shakes his head. "Don't. It's okay. I am getting better. It takes time."

"You should have told me you needed help."

"Didn't know I did." Bass frowns. "I was pretty messed up. Took me a while to figure everything out."

Miles pats his friend on the shoulder. "Well, thanks for taking care of Charlie. I know that wasn't easy when you had your own shit going on."

"Uh, yeah. It was nothing."

"This isn't Cop Miles talking right now. I'm saying that as a friend - as an uncle, you did the right thing. Thanks."

Bass looks skeptical. "So you didn't call in the FBI?"

Miles chuckles and shakes his head. "No, man. Charlie is the only family I have left. She's not going to jail."

Bass looks at Charlie and wonders why she's done everything she can to make him out to be a good guy. He feels like a fraud. Charlie looks up and their eyes lock. Flashes of memory from last night flit through his head. His heartbeat stutters into a faster rhythm. It's good that this is almost over. He probably can't take much more.

Charlie breaks eye contact with Bass and turns her attention to Will Strausser. Her brow furrows and she looks puzzled.

Will notices that he has her attention. "Like what you see?" His eyebrow hitches up high.

"You look familiar," Charlie says. Her brow furrows in concentration. After a moment, she has it. "The pictures on the mantle!"

"What mantle?"

"That house near Boston." Charlie looks at Bass. "It was his house, right? With that big box full of dildos and roofies….that was him?"

"Say what?" Miles bristles.

Charlie covers quickly. "We were looking for a change of clothes and we found a box of sex toys at his house. It was disgusting."

Miles turns to Bass. "What the hell?"

Bass shakes his head. "It wasn't like that. Don't get your panties in a twist."

Duncan approaches the group. "Bass, your car is ready. You said you wanted to head out early."

He nods and looks at Charlie. "Ready to go see your Mom?"

She stands. "Not really, but yeah. I just need to get my stuff."

"But we just got here," Miles whines. "I never get to see you."

Bass runs fingers through his short curls. "You guys could come with to Rachel's, if you want."

Jeremy takes a step back and Will shows his teeth, making a hissing sound.

"No offense, Charlie, but we're not your Mom's biggest fans." Baker shakes his head.

Will agrees. "If the choice is between hanging out in Sin City and driving to see the Ice Queen, well, there's no choice."

Charlie chuckles. "Believe me. I get it. I wouldn't go either if I didn't need to." She glances over at Bass. "Let's go."

Duncan looks at the guys. "So, you three are sticking around for a bit?"

Jeremy nods. "I have four more days of leave."

Will and Miles agree that four more days sounds good.

"If you want to stay here, your usual rooms are available."

Baker smirks. "Green for me and gray for Will. What about Miles? He staying in his usual room?"

Miles looks uncomfortable and Duncan flashes a coy smile. "Charlie had the white room. Room Service will have it ready within the hour, or…" her gaze travels to Miles and the electricity between them is palpable. "Or, the blue room is always available to Miles. He can choose."

Duncan walks away. Charlie can tell by the looks on the faces around her, that she's missed out on something. "What's the deal with the blue room?"

Bass tilts his head toward the exit, reminding her they have to go. "The blue room is Duncan's. She and Miles have some history. That's all."

Charlie nods and a little smile plays at her lips. "You should choose the blue room, Miles. Definitely the blue room."

"Oh, shut up," Miles growls, but his heart isn't in it. He pulls Charlie into a hug. "Take care of yourself. Call me after and tell me how it went."

"I will."

Miles and Bass also share a quick hug. "Take care of her."

"Always."

As Bass and Charlie leave the bar, Baker notices a big grin on Will's face. "What?"

"Just think it's interesting, how disgusted Charlie was by my sex toy collection."

Jeremy takes a sip of his drink. "Why is that interesting?"

"Cause when I did a little inventory after they visited, I couldn't help but notice that three pair of fur lined cuffs were missing."

Jeremy glances nervously at Miles and is relieved to see he's not paying attention to them. "First of all, never speak of that again. Especially not around Miles. Secondly, why in the hell do you need three pair of fur lined cuffs?"

* * *

Bass and Charlie exit through the tunnel and once again they enter the old parking garage. This time, a different vehicle is waiting.

"What's this?" Charlie asks, nodding toward the black Range Rover.

"This is my car. I keep it here for when I visit. It was in storage, or we would have taken it to the Alamo last night."

"Nice." She shrugs and then she stops. "Is that one yours too?" She points at a poison apple green classic car that is parked a few spaces away.

Bass smiles at the sight of the familiar green car. "No. That's Will's GTO. He rebuilt her from a wreck. That car is his baby." He glances at Charlie and sees her eyeing the the green car appreciatively.

"Thought you didn't care about cars?"

"Well, that one is pretty."

He chuckles in spite of the dread curling in his gut. As much as he wants to hear what Rachel has to say; he dreads telling Charlie goodbye, and as this last stretch of their road trip begins, he truly senses that the end is near. "Come on. Let's go."

They get in the car, and Charlie is surprised to see the familiar Rubbermaid tote in the back. "We have the music?"

Bass nods. "I asked Duncan to put everything from the Cutlass in here." He points to Connor's Hula girl on the dash. "She listened."

He navigates out of the parking garage while Charlie digs for a disk they haven't listened to yet. There aren't a lot of choices left, but she settles on Heart's greatest hits. The music swells around them, and Charlie lets the lush vocals wash over her. It had been good to see Miles again, and Charlie had liked meeting Duncan and Jeremy. Even Will had a certain appeal. She wonders what it could have been like if she'd met them all under different circumstances.

Her gaze is drawn to Bass. They haven't talked about last night. She'd left while he was still sleeping because she wanted to avoid talking about any of it. The truth was that last night had been a mistake. She thought it wouldn't matter. She thought it was just physical. She thought….

She thought wrong. Her heart clenches with an acute feeling of loss. She shouldn't be upset that their time together is coming to a close. She shouldn't be, but she is.

Bass glances over. He's wearing shades, so she can't read his expression. "If you want to sleep, go ahead. We'll be driving for a while."

Charlie doesn't really want to sleep, but it seems like the only option that won't make her soul hurt. She tilts her seat back a little and settles into the supple weather as the lush vocals of Ann Wilson, swirl through the air around her.

* * *

Charlie must have not realized just how tired she was because when she wakes up, the first thing she sees is the "Welcome to California" sign. She looks over at Bass. He's taken off the shades and is staring forward. His jaw is tight.

"Hey. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he says, without looking her way.

She can tell he doesn't want to talk. She also notices that Heart has been replaced by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. The darkness in Bass's mood is mirrored by the music. Charlie watches the scenery that is passing and she decides she doesn't care if he wants to talk. "We could turn around."

"What?" He glances her way at that, his brow furrowed.

"We could go back to Vegas and hang with Miles and your friends. We could go to Mexico. Canada."

"And do what?"

"Live."

He shakes his head. "We already talked about this. I have to talk with your Mom, and I am going to scatter Connor's ashes."

"I could do that with you. We don't have to say goodbye after you talk to my mom."

"Yeah. Yeah we do."

Charlie takes a deep breath, fighting emotion. She gets a handle on it and nods, resigned. "Fine."

They hit the drive-through at a Jack in the Box, and then they continue on toward LA. It's been awhile since she's been there, and the closer they get to her Mom's place, Charlie feels her own mood darkening, too.

"Do you know what she wants from you, Charlie?" his question surprises her, as they've gone miles without speaking.

"Yeah. I was the beneficiary for Danny's trust fund. There are some papers I have to sign."

"That's all?" He shakes his head. "Figured it was more than that. Why didn't she just mail the papers to you?"

"Because this way she can control the situation, and she always needs to be in control."

"Listen, Charlie. I've been thinking about it, and I want you to know that we don't have to do this. I want the information your Mom has, but if you don't want to go, I'll figure out a different way to get what I need."

Charlie shakes her head. "No. It's okay."

They drive in silence for a while before Bass speaks again. "What will you do with the money when you get it?"

"I don't know. I don't get anything till I'm twenty-five. Guess I'll just give it all away. Maybe donate it to a shelter? Something like that. I don't want it."

"So, why meet with her at all?"

Charlie frowns at him as if the answer is obvious. "Because it's important to you."

* * *

Duncan Page is in her office, poring over the casino's books with a pair of reading glasses perched low on her nose. The door opens but she doesn't look up. "What?"

"Sorry. Bad time?" Miles stands in the doorway, looking oddly nervous as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other..

Duncan leans back into her chair, takes off her glasses and tries not to smirk. Nervous Miles is a rare sight. She thinks he looks adorable. "Never a bad time for you, Miles."

He grins then, running a hand through his hair. "I wanted to come talk to you." He shoves his hands in his pockets and shakes his head. "This shouldn't be so weird. Why is it so weird? It's been what, five years?"

"Or seven." She shrugs. "Come in, Miles. Have a drink." Duncan stands and walks over to a bar that lines one side of her office. She pours a whiskey from a crystal decanter and hands the glass to him. Their fingers brush ever so slightly, and she feels a sizzle of awareness shoot down her spine.

Her gaze latches onto his and she can see the same need in his eyes that she knows is mirrored in her own. "What did you want to talk about?"

Miles takes a sip of his whiskey and then sets the glass on her desk before stepping closer. "I don't remember. Let's talk later."

* * *

The drive to LA is uneventful and quiet. The music coming from the CD player is all that breaks the silence as both Charlie and Bass are lost in their own thoughts. They listen to Talking Heads, R.E.M. and Lynyrd Skynrd. Charlie hardly pays attention, changing disks out of habit more than anything.

She puts in the only disk from the Rubbermaid tote that they haven't listened to yet. It's "Desperado" by the Eagles, and as it begins to play, they cross the city limits of LA. The day is sunny, and a warm breeze blows the fronds on the palm trees. Bass follows the GPS coordinates in the Range Rover, which eventually lead him to a steel and glass high rise that towers over a quiet city street. "So, this is your Mom's place?"

Charlie nods. Her jaw is tight. "She has the top three floors. Penthouse is her living quarters and an office. The other two are labs."

"Did you ever live here?" He takes in the austere architecture. It looks exactly like the type of place Rachel would love. It looks nothing at all like something Charlie would enjoy.

"Danny and I lived here for a few months after Dad and Maggie died. They weren't pleasant months."

She gets out of the car. He opens the back and retrieves her bags. "You ready?"

Charlie shrugs. "As ready as I can be." She leads the way, and he follows.

They walk into a marble and glass foyer. Charlie gets in the elevator and pushes the button for the penthouse. When she is prompted for a security code, she enters it. They ride quietly as they move up. Charlie glances at Bass. He looks as tense as she feels. She opens her mouth to say something, but decides there is no use. He's told her how he feels. She just needs to accept it.

When the elevator door opens, a portly fellow with a thick beard and black-rimmed eyeglasses welcomes them with a shy hello. "Charlie. It's good to see you. How have you been?"

Charlie's face splits with a genuine smile. "Aaron! I thought you were in New York?"

The big man pulls her into a warm hug. "I was. Your mom has had me out here helping with a project for a few months."

Charlie puts her hand on Bass's arm. "Aaron, this is Bass Monroe. Bass, Aaron Pittman is mom's business partner. He's also a good friend."

"Nice to meet you." Bass sounds distracted. "Is Rachel here?"

Aaron nods. "Yes. She asked me to take you both to her office when you arrived. She's been expecting you for a few days, actually."

Charlie backs away. "Sorry, Aaron. I can't deal with her right now. But, take Bass to her. They need to talk." Charlie looks at Bass and notes his worried expression. Tears well up in her eyes, and she knows she needs to get away from him or she'll lose what little composure she's clinging to.

"Charlie," he calls out after her as she begins to walk away.

She waves him off. "I'll talk to you before you leave."

Bass feels his heart constrict with a mixture of pain and worry. He doesn't want to say goodbye to her, but the alternative is more painful. The idea of loving again and the inevitable losing that always follows is too much for Bass to ever revisit.

He's taken several steps down the corridor where Aaron leads him when he stumbles. Love? Why had he even thought about love? He doesn't love Charlie.

Aaron glances over his shoulder. "You okay?"

Bass takes a deep breath. He'll deal with those thoughts later. Right now he needs to talk to Rachel. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Aaron opens a set of large doors and welcomes Bass into a spacious room. One wall is solid glass, overlooking the city of Los Angeles. There is an wide black desk, a simple desk chair and two visitor chairs. A large framed line drawing of a human brain hangs on the wall behind the desk but there are no photographs or personal effects in the room. There is nothing else in the room, not even a sheet of paper lies on the desk.

"Must be her office?" Bass frowns.

Aaron nods and gives a little shiver. "Yeah. She needs a plant or something. It always feels cold in here to me."

"Pretty sure her problem is bigger than office decor," Bass says under his breath.

Aaron tries to hide a smile. "Wait here. She'll be in soon."

Bass walks to the windows and looks out. Cars follow the roads that are laid out below. Pedestrians and cyclists travel in harmony with one another. It's a beautiful day, and he wishes he was in a mood to appreciate any of it. He isn't.

Bass hears the office door open and turns. Rachel is watching him, her eyes icy blue. She wears a simple white pantsuit. He figures it cost more than Charlie's rent. She scowls at him. "You are three days late."

"Sorry. Got held up. We're here now. What do you know about Connor?"

Rachel sits in the chair behind the desk. She folds her hands on its glossy surface. "Where is Charlie?"

"She went down the other hall. Said she'd talk to you later."

Rachel nods, lips pursed. "Well, let's get this over with then. What do you want to know?"

"What can you tell me?"

"Not much about Connor exactly, but we did find something unusual regarding the soldier who shot him. His name is Jason Neville."

"Yeah. I know his name. Unusual how?"

"He was sent to an exclusive boarding school in Texas. Place called Arnell Street Preparatory School."

"So?"

"Attended Harvard where he majored in political science."

"Okay?"

"Graduated top of his class and immediately signed up to join the army."

Bass feels a chill.

"You see it now? The similarity? That kid you and Miles took care of? Edward Flynn? He went to the same boarding school. He also attended Harvard before joining the Army. Who does that?"

"Maybe it was a coincidence?"

Rachel shakes her head. "I thought that was a possibility too, but then I saw the roster for Flynn's office staff."

"And?"

"His personal assistant is a man named Tom Neville. Ever hear of him?"

Bass schools his expression. "No."

"Well, Jason is his son. No way is all this a coincidence."

Bass feels shell shocked, "But why would Flynn have Neville kill Connor? Revenge against me for Eddie? I didn't kill Eddie. We tried to keep him safe."

"I don't think it's that. Aaron found some emails that make me even more sure Connor's death was something personal between him and Connor."

"You _found_ emails? Did you fucking hack the Department of Defense?"

She shrugs. "I was worried that the DOD was hacking me after I started working for them. I asked Aaron to hack them back. Don't worry. Nobody will trace any of this to us or to you."

He shakes his head. "So what about these emails?

"When Flynn was notified that Jason had killed Connor, he didn't handle it well."

"What does that mean?"

"He said they couldn't start the process again. Said if Jason failed, the whole project was in danger. Called Jason the chosen one. Whatever reason Jason had for killing Connor, I think it was personal. He wasn't ordered to do it. Not by the DOD anyway. They did not want Jason Neville to have a record or get into trouble at all."

"Wait. The chosen one?"

"I think he's the second chosen one. Bass, I think Eddie was the first. Flynn didn't have anything to do with Connor's death. I don't think he knew Connor was even your son at first because your last names are different."

Bass is skeptical. "Wouldn't Connor's basic information have been in every report? I'd think my name would have come up."

Rachel shakes her head. "I don't know why, but Tom Neville was keeping a lot of the details out of the official report. Flynn only started to suspect he was missing information in the last few days."

"But why would Neville hide details from his boss?"

"I don't think Neville wanted Flynn to know just how badly his son had messed up. I think he is trying to protect Jason. Flynn is onto him now and based on some of the correspondence between Flynn and some of the rest of upper management, Neville will soon be very unemployed."

Bass doesn't bother to tell Rachel that job hunting is the least of Neville's worries. He rubs at his temple. "So we know that Flynn is playing god with another kid but we don't know why that kid killed mine." Bass closes his eyes and rubs tiredly at his temples.

Rachel frowns. "Sorry, Monroe. That's all I have."

"Well I guess it's more than I had before."

He starts to leave but turns. "Hey Rachel. Why did you ask me to bring Charlie here? Why me?"

"I keep tabs on Charlie from a distance. Miles, too. I knew that Miles had gone to your son's funeral and that you were retiring from the marines. I thought you could use a distraction, and I know Miles has always said you are the most trustworthy person he knows."

"Why didn't you just hop on a plane and get her yourself?"

"I've been busy."

"That why you didn't go to Danny's funeral? Too busy?"

Rachel's face tightens into a scowl. "I wasn't needed there. Charlie has never needed me. She's the most independent person I've ever known. I knew she'd be fine."

"So after she fills out these papers, what then?"

Rachel shrugs. "I'll send her back to Boston if that's what she wants."

"You are still a stone cold bitch, do you know that?"

"Yes, I've heard it all before. Maybe it's even true. We all are who we are, Bass. This is who I am."

"She deserves better."

"And I'm sure she'll find it." Rachel tilts her head and her lip curls. "But not with _you_. Just so we're clear, having her isn't part of the deal. Your obligation is over. You can move along now."

He feels bile rise in his throat. "She's not a piece of property that you can just –"

Rachel's eyes glitter with distaste. "Toss in my trunk? Do tell, Monroe. Tell me what she is to _you_."

"How did you know about –"

"I have my ways, Bass. I trust you can show yourself out."

"Gladly." He leaves the office and looks for Charlie but only finds Aaron. "Where is she?"

Aaron sighs. "She left a few minutes ago. Said she'd be back later. Sorry. That's all I know."

Bass feels as if his feet have been knocked out from under him. He can't believe that Charlie didn't even stick around to say goodbye.

Bass leaves the sterile glass and steel building and doesn't look back. He needs to drive to the beach and scatter Connor's ashes. Then he can take some time to think through everything that has happened. He needs to get a grip on everything before he plans his next steps. He comes to an abrupt halt when he gets to his Range Rover and finds Charlie leaning against it. He feels a level of relief that he knows isn't healthy. Slowly he lets out a breath and crosses the space between them. "Hey."

The warm California breeze blows strands of her hair into her face. She brushes them away and looks up at him with sad eyes. "Hey. I wanted to say goodbye, but not up there."

He nods. "You okay?"

"Sure. I'm fine. Just not real excited to see her."

"Yeah, well. She's in top form."

Charlie lets out a sigh. "Figures. I guess I'd better get it over with."

"Then what? What's your next move?"

"I don't know. I don't have roots. I could move to Wisconsin and be close to MIles, but I'll probably just head back to Boston. I have friends there. It will be fine."

"Decided against a fresh start?"

"I don't know. It doesn't matter. I'll find my way. I always do. What about you? I'm still worried about you."

"Don't, Charlie. Just don't."

"You have your answers now, right? I mean, about Connor?"

"Most of them, yeah."

Charlie bites her lip, uncertain. "Feel better?"

He shakes his head. "Not really, but maybe I will someday."

"I hope that's true. You deserve closure."

They stand there staring at each other. Bass shifts from foot to foot. "I should go. Do you need a ride anywhere or something?"

She shakes her head. "Gotta go sign those papers, and then I'll call an Uber to take me to the airport."

"Yeah, okay." He steps toward her, but stops himself. He knows in his bones that touching her is a bad idea.

She smiles sadly. "I have something for you."

"What?"

She pulls a compact disk from her bag and holds it out. "The last one."

"Thought we'd listened to them all?" He takes it without looking at it. He can't tear his gaze from hers.

"All but this one. It fell out of his pack when you were showing it to me. Must have been a favorite, right? If he kept it with him." She frowns and looks away. Her eyes are wet and she takes a deep breath. "So I was saving it for you as a grand finale, I guess." She shakes her head self-consciously. "It was stupid. Whatever, now you have it."

"It's not stupid. Thank you, Charlie."

"You're welcome, Bass. You know, if you're ever in Boston, maybe you can look me up."

Bass tries to reply, but his voice breaks. He clears his throat and tries again. "That's not a good idea."

She doesn't even bother to brush away the tears that fall. She nods. "Yeah, of course. Well, good bye. I hope you find everything you're looking for."

"You too, Charlie."

Charlie turns and walks back up the sidewalk toward her mom's building. Bass almost calls out to her, but doesn't. This is for the best. He keeps telling himself that as each step takes her farther away from him. When she disappears behind the glass doors, he finally turns and gets into his car.

Bass sits behind the wheel of the Range Rover and looks down at the compact disk in his hands. He notes that his fingers are shaking slightly. He ignores their tremor and focuses on the cover of the album. "Grace" by Jeff Buckley. He remembers the day he'd told Charlie about how Buckley's cover of "Hallelujah" was one both he and Connor had enjoyed. He remembers listening to this very disk with Connor on a different road trip long ago.

It feels like fate - that this is the last disk. He sighs, and gets in his car, punching in the GPS coordinates for Point Dume State Beach. Once he's on the freeway, he puts in the CD and lets Buckley's haunting vocals wash over him. Bass tightens his hands on the steering wheel and focuses on the road ahead. The music holds a sadness that feels wildly appropriate for what he has to do next.

He's said goodbye to Charlie.

Now he needs to say goodbye to Connor.

* * *

 **A/N: Not kidding this time: The next chapter will be the last. With my track record lately, I think you can expect that one in about a month. Hope to see you there. Leave a comment if you have a moment. I can't tell you how inspiring it is to hear from folks who are reading. Thanks to all of you for taking this journey with me. -Lemon**


	11. Chapter 11: Los Angeles to Walnut

**From Los Angeles to Walnut, California (forty-five miles)**

A skateboarder with shaggy brown hair swerves around Charlie as she walks down the busy LA sidewalk with her messenger bag slung over one shoulder. She doesn't notice the boy on the skateboard, or the heat of the sun, or the sound of passing traffic, or the swaying palms that tower over the busy street. She notices only the empty feeling in her gut and the way that her heart aches dully in her chest.

Bass had driven away an hour ago. Charlie had gone straight to her mom's office afterward. Maybe if Bass had stayed with her and she hadn't had to face her mom alone, it wouldn't have been so bad. But seeing her mom so soon after saying goodbye to him had felt like salt pouring into an open wound.

She thinks of him now – the way he'd saved her, the way he'd shared a part of himself with her, the way he'd let her see his pain, the way it had felt to be wrapped in his arms. Charlie takes a deep breath, trying not to dwell on the rejection that she feels or the worry that gnaws at her gut. She thinks he's changed his mind, but she can't forget how he'd once said the last thing he wanted to do before killing himself was to scatter his son's ashes.

Charlie shakes her head. Nothing good can come from thinking about this. About him. She turns her thoughts to the place she's just left. The meeting with her mom had been brief. Charlie had signed the papers without reading them and then she'd turned and walked away. Rachel had called after her, but Charlie hadn't looked back.

Now Charlie wishes her heart could let go of Bass as easily as it had let go of Rachel. But memories of Bass are too fresh. Her feelings for him are burrowed deep, and she fears they won't fade easily. She clutches the strap of her bag tighter to her body, remembering the souvenirs she'd secretly kept from her time with Bass Monroe: a solitary compact disk ( _Born to Run_ by Springsteen) and one pair of fur lined handcuffs. She doesn't dwell on why she'd kept either item, but somehow having something real from their time together feels like it might help soothe her aching heart.

* * *

Bass walks across the warm white sand toward the gentle surf on Point Dume State Beach. The breeze blowing in off the Pacific is warm, ruffling his close cropped curls. He kicks off his shoes and takes off his socks, looking down to watch the sand squeezing between his toes. He sets down the bag of Connor's ashes and the Jeff Buckley disk that Charlie had given him. He clutches Connor's flask, comforted by the weight of it, glad he'd refilled it with whiskey before leaving Vegas.

He faces the water, watching the waves chase each other onto the thirsty sand. The last time he'd been here, he'd been with Connor. They'd been wrapping up a week off before reporting for duty. It had been a good week, and they'd spent one wonderful evening right here watching the sun set over the surf.

Bass sits down on the sand and unscrews the lid from the flask, taking a drink. The liquor burns with a welcome heat, and he follows the first swallow with a second. He puts the cap back on and sets the flask aside. Reaching for the compact disk Charlie had saved for him, he runs his fingers over its cool surface before opening it. He'd listened to some of it in the car on his way here, but now he decides that reading the lyrics from the liner notes will be a fitting farewell to his son.

He pulls out the thin booklet, and reads through the lyrics for the first song _Mojo Pin_. The song is about love and loss, but it reminds him more of Charlie than it does Connor.

The second song also isn't one that really inspires thoughts of Connor. Other than the fact that he knows his son loved this CD, there is nothing about the lyrics that remind him of Connor, specifically.

When he gets to the third song, his heart clenches and he gives up trying to put Charlie out of his mind. Clearly she's there. The words to this song feel as if they were written for only her…

 _This is our last goodbye_

 _I hate to feel the love between us die_

 _But it's over_

 _Just hear this and then I'll go_

 _You gave me more to live for_

 _More than you'll ever know_

 _This is our last embrace_

 _Must I dream and always see your face?_

 _Why can't we overcome this wall?_

 _Baby, maybe it's just because you didn't know me at all..._

Bass takes another sip from his whiskey and decides that instead of reading the lyrics to every song, he'll skip to the one song on this album which he knows will remind him of Connor. He turns to the page for the sixth track on the album; Buckley's cover of Leonard Cohen's _Hallelujah._ This song truly does bring his thoughts back to Connor because they had discussed it at length, calculating pros and cons of the cover versus the original. He falters though, with the flask held in mid-air, his eyes locked on the space where the familiar text should be. The words are there, but they are obscured.

On top of the printed lyrics, four small photographs have been carefully taped. Bass wedges the base of the flask into the sand and holds the paper closer to his face, trying to take in the small details. Two of the pictures show an army private talking to a shorter man in a kufi-Afghani, Bass assumes. The third picture clearly shows the American handing the Afghan a flash drive. The fourth shows the American taking a heavy package from the other man.

Bass feels a shiver of realization as he focuses in on the face of the American soldier in the pictures. Bass would know that face anywhere, but even if he didn't, Connor has made it clear with the caption he's scrawled at the bottom of the page: PFC _Neville, selling intel to a our civilian interpreter._

Bass shakily runs a hand along his jaw as the truth sinks in. Neville had probably killed Connor in hopes of keeping his treachery secret. Then he had roped his dad in to help with the cover-up, and when Tom had asked Bass for whatever Connor had given his dad, surely _these photos_ were what he was after...

* * *

Charlie is almost a mile away from her mom's office when a silver Chevy Tahoe pulls up next to her. "Hey, Charlie. Is that you?"

She stops and turns, recognizing Jeff from the War Clan Casino bar as soon as she sees him. Her brow furrows in confusion. "What are you doing here? Why aren't you back in Vegas?"

His expression is grim. "We've been trying to call you. Duncan is worried. She sent me."

"Tried to call me? My phone has been dead since yesterday." She shrugs. "Why is Duncan worried?"

He frowns. "Blanchard. He's decided Bass owes him a lot of money, and he wants to collect. Duncan is afraid he'll come after you because he knows how much you mean to him."

Charlie's heart sinks as she remembers the way Bass had driven away from her without looking back. She shakes her head. "Blanchard's wrong. I don't mean all that much to Bass."

Jeff looks concerned. "You okay? You look upset."

Charlie steels herself. "I'm fine."

"Well, get in anyway. I'll drive you back to Vegas. We can be there by nightfall."

Charlie hesitates. "Why didn't Duncan come herself or send Miles?"

"Hell if I know. Just get in, Charlie. We can figure out the rest later. You can use my phone to call Duncan and get all the details you want."

She ponders his offer for a moment. He had been kind back in Vegas, and he looks genuinely worried about her. "Fine. Not like I have anywhere else to be." She tosses her bag into the back and then swings into the passenger seat. "Let's go."

They have driven for only ten minutes when Charlie glances over and cocks an eyebrow. "Have you ever driven around LA before? We're going the wrong way."

Jeff pulls up to a red light. Traffic is light, and theirs is the only car stopping here. "No, Charlie. We aren't going the wrong way." Charlie barely has time to register his words before she sees his fist coming at her face.

Then everything fades to black.

* * *

Bass stares at the pictures taped to the liner notes, wondering why he doesn't feel better. After all, he's holding proof that he'd been right all along. Connor's death had not been an accident. Not by a long shot.

But he doesn't feel better. He feels empty and alone, and the knowledge of why his son died is no comfort at all. He's still dead. Bass wants to tell Charlie about this, aches to share this new development with her. He wants to tell her she was right. Sometimes knowing the truth doesn't heal the pain. He wants to tell her so much, but…

No.

He won't be sharing anything with Charlie.

"Why the hell not?" Connor's voice breaks the soft quiet of the lonely beach.

Bass's gaze jerks to the sand at his side. Connor is sitting there, looking relaxed and mildly amused. He's wearing shades and a five o'clock shadow. His jeans are rolled up mid-calf and his tee shirt flutters against his chest with every gust of ocean breeze.

"Thought you were gone for good."

Connor nods at the bag of ashes. "Almost. Not quite."

"I found the pictures you left for me. I'll work with Baker. We'll turn them in, and then you'll get your justice."

Connor sighs. "Never did need justice. Glad it makes you happy, though." He lifts his shades so that his brown eyes can stare into his dad's blue ones. "You are happy, right? _This_ is what makes you happy?"

"I can't be happy anymore, but this makes me feel better."

"Bullshit."

"What?"

"If you would take your head out of your ass for five minutes, you might realize that you absolutely can be happy again. You were so close to it. Happiness was in your grasp, and you blew your chance like a chump." Connor shakes his head sadly. "It's too bad. It really is. I liked her. If I were _really_ here, I'd give you a fucking run for your money with her, old man." Connor laughs before facing the sea once more.

Bass picks up a handful of sand and watches as the grains slide through his fingers. "I wish you were really here. But, you and Charlie? Well, I don't know about that."

Connor smirks. "See, you like her too. You way more than like her."

"Doesn't matter. I'm not going to go through it again. I can't lose anyone else."

"Just stop. So you lost people. That doesn't mean you get to shut everyone out and ride off into the darkness, all broody and alone. You are not Batman." Connor shakes his head in frustration.

Bass furrows his brow and mumbles. "I could be Batman. I have money. I could buy a grappling hook and a black cape."

Connor grins. "Maybe skip the batsuit, and just try to live. Embrace whatever time you have left. Take chances. Have adventures. Fall in love."

"That's not gonna happen." Bass shakes his head.

"It will happen, and that's not something to be afraid of. You were loved, Dad. You were loved and you loved and you will love again."

Bass doesn't respond and they sit in silence for a long time. The waves stumble softly onto the sand with frothy, reaching fingers. Bass stares into the surf, contemplating walking in until the water covers his head. He thinks about his original plan. In the beginning, he'd known it would all end here. He realizes absently that he's forgotten his gun in the car. Clearly his plans have changed and although he may not know when they changed exactly, he knows why: Charlie.

He needs to change the subject so he nods toward the surf. "Do you remember when we were here before?"

Connor nods, his expression wistful. "Yeah. That was a great trip. I'm glad you picked this place, It's perfect, ya know, for..." He takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "You're still an idiot though."

"Why?" Bass sounds weary. He stares, unfocused at the sea.

"Because you are here on a lonely beach trying to change the subject within an imaginary conversation you are having with your dead kid instead of busting your ass to get back to LA and stop Charlie before she leaves for good."

* * *

Charlie comes to slowly, groaning. She opens and shuts her mouth carefully, wincing as a spark of pain lights her jaw. She moves her chin from side to side. The pain is intense but bearable. Bruised. Not broken. She'll survive.

Slowly she opens her eyes and looks around. She's in an unfamiliar living room. There is a long leather sofa and matching wing chairs. Jeff is sitting in one of them, staring at the screen of his iPhone. She is sitting in a straight backed kitchen chair about ten feet away from him; her hands and feet are bound. Glancing down, she can see that her feet are trussed with duct tape.

Deja vu hits Charlie with the force of a freight train. How the hell was she stupid enough to get kidnapped, again? What is Jeff's agenda? Who does he work for? Her mind is jumbled with questions, but one thought surges to the top. Bass. She wishes he was here. Charlie's heart clenches at the thought of him and the realization that he won't be coming to save her this time - that in fact, he'll have no idea that she needs saving - brings her the clarity she needs in this moment.

She's a Matheson, for fuck's sake. She's going to have to take care of herself.

Charlie's wrists are bound behind the back of the chair. She tentatively moves her hands, trying to gauge the strength of the tape on her wrists, hoping it's loose enough that she can get free. Her eyes go wide in surprise. No tape. Slowly, a sly smile spreads across her face as she recognizes the familiar rub of soft fur against her wrists.

* * *

Connor stands in the sea, the surf bubbling around his ankles, the breeze blowing his clothes against his body. He spreads his arms wide and throws back his head, soaking in the smell of the sea air and the heat of the afternoon sunshine on his face. He turns to look at his father who is standing in the water nearby.

Their eyes meet, gazes locking in unspoken agreement. Bass lifts the bag of ashes, unzips it and lets the wind carry the contents away. The particles sparkle in the sunlight, glittering on the breeze before fading into the surf. Connor takes off his shades and smiles over at his dad, his features are smooth and peaceful. "I love you, dad. Love you, forever."

A million memories crowd into Bass's brain as he watches Connor. He remembers the first time he'd met his son, a boy with wary eyes and unruly dark curls, still mourning his mother's death. Bass remembers how Connor had been with Shelly, how thrilled he'd been to hear he was going to be a big brother. Bass remembers crushing grief fading only in the welcome warmth of his son's arms. He remembers driving lessons and first dates. He remembers graduation and watching with pride as his son signed up to join the army. He remembers their last moments together and the agony of watching his son die.

He remembers everything and nothing all at once. Most of all, he remembers loving and being loved. He remembers feeling needed and wanted and whole. He remembers being proud of his son's every accomplishment. He remembers the thrill of a phone call, the joy in a postcard, the happiness in a shared vacation.

He remembers lying in a VA hospital room not all that long ago, wishing he'd never had a son at all. He'd been lost in his grief and despair, and in that moment he had wished he'd never known love because knowing love meant also knowing unspeakable loss.

Bass shakes his head, realizing in this blinding moment of truth that nothing in life is so precious as being loved. It was worth it. It was all worth it. "Love you too," Bass's voice cracks with emotion. He takes a step closer, stretching out his arm. Connor reaches out and their hands touch.

Connor's face breaks into a grin as he grasps his dad's fingers tightly. "You're gonna be okay, Dad."

Bass isn't sure he agrees, but he nods. "Yeah, maybe." He knows this is goodbye - the last goodbye. Knows it in his heart. Bass watches their fingers twined tightly together.

 _He remembers holding Connor's hand long ago. They'd been ready to board a plane. Connor was eleven and hated planes. He wasn't happy about going on this trip. Bass had tried to reassure his son. "I'll be there. I'll be with you the whole time."_

 _Connor had been hesitant, but eventually he'd nodded, watching his dad with big sad eyes. "Don't let go of my hand, Dad. Please?"_

" _I'll never let you go."_

Bass's memory merges into the present. He meets Connor's eyes in the here and now. They are the same eyes from all those years ago. His heart lurches. "I'll never let you go, Connor. Never."

"It's okay to let go this time, Dad. I think it's finally okay."

Tears blur his vision and he feels Connor's fingers shifting into nothingness before he sees his son's image fade away. Bass's arm drops to his side and his shoulders sag as he whispers, "Goodbye, Connor."

But he is alone on the beach, and the sound of the surf is all he hears in return.

* * *

The room where Charlie is being held appears to be part of a hotel suite. In addition to the leather sofa and wing chairs, there is a large fireplace and a lot of generic floral paintings on the walls. Along one side of the room, there is a kitchenette, complete with stainless steel appliances. Jeff is digging through the refrigerator. "Want some food?"

Charlie nods. "Yeah, let's go to McDonald's."

He shakes his head. "Nice try. I've got fruit and bologna and some left over hot wings. There's juice. Would you like some juice?"

"No."

"You're awfully calm." He leans against the counter as the fridge door thuds shut and takes a bite out of an apple. He chews thoughtfully, watching her.

"Were you hoping I'd cry?"

"Uh. I don't know? I just figured there would be some drama. Girls are usually kind of dramatic.

"Well, Jeff, I'm probably not like other girls you know. Besides, this isn't my first kidnapping and so far I don't see anything I need to worry about. Clearly you're not the brains of the operation."

"You think I'm stupid?" He loses interest in the apple, tossing it in the trash. "You jumped in my car without much effort on my part. That doesn't say much for your intelligence, does it?"

"No. It probably doesn't. Who hired you to take me? Can't be my mom this time. I signed her damn papers."

"Your mom?" he looks confused. "No. Wasn't your mom."

The door opens wide just then. Frank Blanchard walks inside the threshold. His grin is wicked. "Oh, it was me, sweetheart. I'm the one who asked Jeff to get'cha." Frank strides through the kitchen door, his leering gaze takes in every inch of Charlie's form. "You look good. Good enough to…"

Charlie feels the first swirling tangle of fear curl through her gut. She remembers clearly hearing Bass list off the things this man was suspected of. "You are behind this?"

Frank walks closer, running an open palm against Charlie's cheek. "Expecting someone else?" Blanchard licks his lips as he eyes her up and down. "You are going to make me a lot of money, Beautiful. All the fellas are gonna want a piece of your sweet ass."

Charlie recoils involuntarily but her restraints keep her from moving very far..

Blanchard trails his fingers down her throat and along the collar of the tank top. With a jerk, he rips the flimsy fabric, baring cleavage. "So ripe," he mutters, his voice husky with need.

"Get your fucking hands off of me."

"Tsk, tsk. You shouldn't talk to me like that." He wraps a stand of her hair around his finger and pulls hard enough to make her wince. "If you're nice, I might not hurt you too bad. Maybe I'll even let you enjoy it a little bit when I break you in with my fat Texas cock."

Even in the beginning, when she'd been truly afraid of Bass, she'd never felt the fear she feels now. "You wouldn't -"

Blanchard steps forward, leaning into her personal space. His breath is hot and wet on her cheek. One clammy hand cups her right breast. Charlie goes rigid, unwilling to show him her fear. "Oh, Girlie, I most certainly will. But not just yet. No. I have some business to work out with your boyfriend first." He licks a stripe from her jaw to her cheekbone with the flat of his tongue.

He smells like garlic and stale sweat. Charlie jerks away from his touch and her stomach rolls with disgust. "Don't touch me."

Blanchard stands tall and looks down on her with narrow eyes and a cold smile. "It's precious how you think you have a say."

In this moment when fear sinks heavily into her bones, Charlie's mind goes to Bass and to all the things she wishes she'd been able to tell him.

* * *

Emotionally drained, Bass trudges up the sand, puts on his shoes and picks up his things. His movements are robotic, his thoughts distant. Head bowed, he makes his way toward the place where the Range Rover is parked.

He thinks about all the things he's discovered about Connor's death. He remembers Connor's words about going back to LA and asking Charlie to give him another chance. Is it stupid to consider talking to her? Or is it stupid not to? He's not sure, but he can't deny the sudden impulse to find out if she'd meant the things she'd said. Maybe if he explained things to her, she'd understand. Maybe…

For the first time since he'd watched Connor die in the battlefield on the other side of the Earth, Bass feels a faint flutter of hope. He picks up his pace, already planning what he'll say when he finds her.

Bass is halfway to the parking lot when his cell rings. He almost doesn't answer, but wonders suddenly if it could possibly be Charlie. His heartbeat stutters into a faster rhythm at that thought. "Hello?"

"Sebastian Monroe?"

He furrows his brow in confusion, coming to a stop. He can't place the voice. "Yeah? Who is this?"

"You left something behind in LA. We picked it up for you."

"What are you talking about?"

"She's fine for now –"

"She?" Bass has been distracted, unfocused. He'd been lost in his memories of Connor and thoughts of a possible reunion with Charlie, but now, with complete clarity, his focus zooms to the present and to what this caller is implying. The only _thing_ he'd left in LA was Charlie, and now Charlie is in danger. "Who the fuck is this?" Bass demands, his knuckles tighten on the phone as dread swells in his gut. "What do you want? Where is sh _e_?"

"If you're as smart as I think you are, you know what you need to trade for her safe return."

Bass's mind fills with the obvious conclusion. "The money. You work for Blanchard."

"Look at you. So clever." The voice mocks him.

Bass fights a sudden urge to vomit on the sand. Faces flash through his memory in rapid fire succession. His mom and dad. Angie and Cindy. Shelly. The baby. Connor. His whole body is wracked with terror at the thought of losing Charlie. "Don't hurt her. Don't touch her." His voice cracks. "Don't –"

The voice interrupts. "That's enough. We aren't taking orders from you. We'll call back with instructions."

"When?"

"Soon."

"Damnit. Don't make me wait." Bass's voice is a ragged plea as his mind fills with desperate thoughts of Charlie. "I'll give you the money. I'll give you anything you want. Just tell me now. Should I head back to Vegas?"

"No. Stay in LA. We'll be in touch."

Bass's voice cracks with frantic emotion. "Put Charlie on the phone. Please let me hear her voice…" He stops speaking and closes his eyes. The line is dead.

* * *

The walls of the room are a beautiful sapphire blue. The heavy drapes are a deeper royal blue that perfectly block out the midday sun. The bedding is the color of the ocean on a warm summer day and all of the color is visible only in flashes of warm light that flicker from an array of candles that are scattered on every flat surface in the space.

Miles rolls onto his back, his chest heaving. "You are so good at that."

Duncan lies at his side, limp and satisfied. "Which thing?"

"All the damn things."

She laughs. "Not so bad yourself. Even after all this time…"

"It's like riding a bike?"

"Something like that, yeah." She rolls closer, leaning in for a soft kiss.

"Want another ride?"

Duncan rolls her eyes and opens her mouth to speak. She stops when she hears her phone ring.

"Don't answer that," Miles pouts.

Duncan shakes her head, laughing. Still blissfully naked, she walks to the dresser, picking up her cell and glancing at the display. "It's Bass."

"Who gives a shit? Seriously, don't answer that," Miles says as he gets out of bed and stalks toward her. He presses his chest to her back and curls an arm around her waist as she accepts the call and puts the phone to her ear.

"Sebastian?"

"Duncan,"

Something in his voice makes her skin pebble with gooseflesh. Miles senses the change in her and tenses. Her words are laced with concern. "Bass? What's wrong?"

"I just. Oh Jesus. I can't -"

"Bass, you're scaring me. Tell me what's happening."

"It's Charlie."

"Charlie? What about Charlie?"

"She's gone. Frank Blanchard has taken her. I'm going to lose her. Just when I figured out she's all I -"

"Stop talking like that. Tell me details." Duncan glances at Miles. Gone is his playful expression. He motions for the phone, his jaw tight.

He takes the phone. "Bass? What the hell?"

Bass's voice breaks. "Miles? Blanchard took Charlie. He says I have to pay or he's going to… I have to pay, Miles."

Miles gut twists with fear. "What do you need? Name it."

"Come to California. I'm waiting for them to call back. Said I'll have details soon. Told me to stay here. No cops. I know you're a cop, but I need you. Charlie needs you."

"We're coming. We're all coming." He nods to Duncan and she begins to round up their scattered clothing. "We can be on the road within the hour."

"Thanks, Brother."

Miles pulls on his jeans with one hand. "When did you see her last?"

Bass takes a ragged breath. "Two hours ago."

"But, why isn't she with you? You said you weren't going to leave her."

"I left her with Rachel, Miles. I thought she would be safe with her mom."

"Jesus, have you not met Rachel?" He shakes his head. "Whatever. Stay where you are. We'll be there as soon as we can." He disconnects the call and pulls on a tee shirt. "I can't believe that fucker let her out of his sight."

Duncan presses a hand to his shoulder. "Well, she's a grown up and Bass isn't her keeper."

"But he was going to watch out for her."

"Forever? Come on, you're being ridiculous."

Miles scowls as he pulls on his boots.

Duncan sits beside him, wrapping an arm around his waist. "Cut him some slack, Miles."

"Charlie has been kidnapped. Why the fuck should I cut him any slack?"

"Because he loves her, you asshole, and I think she loves him too." She kisses his shocked face before heading toward the door. "Come on, Miles. Time to go."

* * *

Jeremy Baker is playing blackjack at the Bellagio. A beautiful redhead is perched on his knee, and he's got a respectable stack of chips in front of him. He'd lost track of Will hours ago but isn't worried about his friend. If anyone can handle themselves in Sin City, it's Strausser.

The dealer indicates Jeremy has won once again, and he can't help but grin as he drags the chips his way. He's stacking them one handed (his other hand is on Ginger's thigh) when his cell buzzes in his pocket. He pulls out the phone and stares at the screen. It's a text from Miles.

GET YOUR ASS BACK TO THE CLAN. CHARLIE/BASS IN TROUBLE. HEADED TO CALI.

Jeremy curses under his breath and looks longingly at the chips. He sighs, gives the redhead a heated kiss and then gently removes her from his knee. "You play through, beautiful. I got somewhere I got to be."

She looks at him blankly. "But your money?"

Baker shakes his head. "No time to cash out. Besides, some things are way more important than money."

* * *

Will Strausser is lounging back in a plush velvet covered sofa in a little whorehouse just south of the Strip. A buxom blonde has her hot mouth wrapped around his dick and is sucking him off like the pro that she is. He's got a big grin on his face and his eyes are closed in sheer erotic joy when he hears his phone go off with the familiar tone that alerts him to Miles's text.

"Not now, Miles," he grumbles, grabbing a handful of blond curls, urging the woman to move faster. He's close.

The sound of the phone doesn't stop and Will scowls. Miles knows he's out having some fun. The only way that he'd bug his old friend is if something bad was happening. "Shit," Will growls. The blonde continues to bob up and down, oblivious to the change in him. He thrusts into her mouth, hoping to speed things up, even as he grasps his phone and stares down at the display.

The urgency in the message is as clear to Will as the fact that he paid a hell of a lot of money for a blow job that is clearly going nowhere. He taps blondie on the shoulder. "Sorry. Gotta cut this short. Duty calls."

She pulls off with a pop, staring up at him with wide eyes. "It's calling right now?" she asks, incredulous.

Will shakes his head sadly, and tucks his softening dick into his jeans. "Well, Miles Matheson always did have shitty timing."

* * *

The Tesla is sailing down the highway, heading west out of Vegas. Duncan is driving and Miles sits in the passenger seat, scrolling through phone numbers on his cell. Will and Jeremy follow in the GTO behind them. Everyone knows where they're headed.

Miles selects a number from the directory and puts his phone to his ear. "Dove, it's me. I need your help."

"What the fuck should I help you for? I'm knee deep in paperwork that you should be doing. When are you coming home?"

Miles sneers at the phone. "This is so not the time to fuck with me about taking a vacation. My niece is missing. I think she's being held by a wacko crime lord out of Vegas. Guy named Frank Blanchard."

Dove's tone changes. "Are you shitting me? How the hell did your niece get involved with a seedy asshole like Frank?"

"You know him?"

"Oh yeah. Back when I was a beat cop in Texas, Frank was a low level thug in Dallas. He was working his way up, but he still had a long way to go back then."

"What do you know about what he's doing now?"

"Just a sec." Dove pauses and Miles can hear the clicking of his boss's hunt and peck typing method.

"Today would be nice, Dove."

"Shut it, Matheson. Here he is. Damn, he's been busy since I knew him. Suspected in multiple open cases – everything from bribery to grand larceny to murder for hire. He smuggles and sells guns. He has half the Vegas hookers on his payroll. Jesus, Miles. Says here he's known to rape the girls before he puts them on the street. What did your niece get herself into?"

Miles pushes down a wave of panic. "Don't know all the details yet. You know anybody out here who can help me?"

"Don't they still have 911 in California? Call the local five oh." Dove's voice drips with sarcasm.

"Don't be a dick. I can call the locals, but was hoping you had a name I could start with. Someone who you can talk to and vouch for me. Gotta keep all of this on the down low, and I don't want to be stuck in red tape. No time for that bullshit."

"I might know somebody. I'll get back to you within the hour and we can figure out a plan. Do you know where he has her?"

"No. Somewhere around LA is our guess. He's supposed to call back again later with details."

Dove taps away at his keyboard some more. "Says here Blanchard owns a winery in Walnut, CA. That's just outside of LA – place is called the Yellow Rose. Actually, looks like he owns the winery and several other businesses in that town. Maybe we could start there."

"We?"

"You aren't the only one who needs a vacation. Booking a flight right now. I can be there by midnight."

"But you never leave Wisconsin."

"You've been telling me for the last year that Scanlon is ready for prime time. I'll put him in charge, and we'll see if you're right."

* * *

Bass sits in a booth at a Perkins. He's on his fifth cup of coffee. The waitress is a kind lady named Marion who seems genuinely worried about him. "You sure I can't get you some scrambled eggs or a burger or something?"

He musters a weak smile and shakes his head. "No, thanks."

His cell phone rings and Marion is forgotten. Bass grabs the phone and presses it to his ear. His hand is shaking. "Hello?"

"Well hello to you too!" Blanchard's heavy Texan accent makes Bass's skin crawl. "How the hell are ya?"

Bass isn't interested in banter. "Is she okay? Put her on."

"That's just adorable, how sweet you are on this little lady. Not that I blame you. She really is a cutie."

"Please let me talk to her, Frank."

Blanchard lets out an exasperated breath. "Fine, I'll let her talk for a second. Hang on."

Bass waits with baited breath. His heart swells when he hears her voice. "Bass?"

"Yeah, it's me. Are you okay?' He doesn't get a chance to say anything more because Blanchard is back on the line.

"So, now you know she's fine. Well, we both already knew she was _fine_ , but now you know she's alive. And she'll stay that way as long as you play nice. No cops, Monroe. You. Me. My money. Once I have that, you can have the girl. Got it?"

Bass's jaw is tight. "Got it. When and where?"

"I'll give you when. 3 a.m. I'll tell you where later."

* * *

Charlie's muscles relax with relief when the door closes behind Blanchard. He's left her in Jeff's care, which is fine by Charlie. Jeff may think that he's a badass, but he's a harmless pussy cat compared to his boss, and as long as it's her against Jeff alone, Charlie likes her chances.

Frank Blanchard, though… She shudders at the memory of their encounter. She'd rather not still be here when he gets back.

Jeff watches her, but he seems distracted. She wants him to go away or at least stop staring at her. His attention is screwing with her plan. She tilts her head to one side, feigning curiosity. "So, does Duncan know you're Blanchard's bitch?"

"I'm not anyone's bitch." He shakes his head, "But no, she doesn't have a clue. No way. She'd have kicked me to the curb a long time ago. Frank paid me really well to stay on the inside and let him know anytime anything interesting happened. He's got guys like me in all the casinos. Frank likes to know things."

She's going to respond but her stomach chooses that moment to growl loudly. Jeff glances over. "Sure you don't want something to eat?" His eyes linger on the exposed curve of her breasts through the torn fabric of her tank top.

She wills herself not to show any emotion. "Don't want anything. I'm fine."

He shrugs, turning to his phone. "Ya know, if you think Monroe is going to save you, you're wrong."

Something in his tone sends sparks of fear down her spine. "What do you mean?"

Jeff chuckles. "Frank hates Monroe. This new stuff with the money and you is just icing on the cake. Frank is going to lure him to this ransom drop and kill him. No question. It's his only goal right now."

Charlie feels bile rise in her throat but she keeps her expression bland. "Bass is smart. He'll get away."

She doesn't bother saying any more to Jeff because he's turned away from her. Once he's distracted, Charlie looks at the door. There's still no sign of Blanchard. Hopefully he will stay gone for a while. She needs five minutes, minimum. Ten maybe, if she can't get her fingers to stop shaking. Slowly she begins to reach for her pocket. It's not an easy task. Her hands are cuffed behind the back of the chair. She feels her shoulder strain and pull.

She thanks her lucky stars that Jeff hadn't bothered to retape her legs after a bathroom break. The cuffs, though, are still an obstacle, and she needs to get out of here before Blanchard returns. Pain shoots through her shoulder and down her back as she twists her frame. Even a dislocated shoulder will be better than anything that sleazy fucker has planned for her.

Charlie ignores the pain as her shaky fingers wrap around a tiny curved bit of metal. The handcuff key is right where she'd left it, tucked deep among the lint in the recesses of her pocket. "Gotcha," she whispers with a relieved grin.

* * *

The eleven o'clock news plays on the old console television in the hotel room where Bass has spent the last hour pacing a rut in the worn carpet. He isn't watching the news. The truth is he isn't even aware of the low hum of noise and the subtle glare it sends into the room. His thoughts are on Charlie, and Charlie alone.

He had tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, his imagination played him a slideshow of all the horrible things Blanchard might be doing to her. None of them were pretty. Most of them made him want to vomit or skin Blanchard alive, or both.

He tried to drink, but the alcohol turns his stomach.

He tried to conjure up Connor, but Connor is gone.

When he hears the knock on the door, he rushes to open it, and when he sees his friends have arrived, fresh tears stream down his cheeks.

Will comes in first, brushing past Bass and slapping him on the back. "Hey, Monroe. The cavalry is here."

Bass nods in silent appreciation.

Miles comes in next and pulls him into a hug. "We're gonna get her back."

Duncan files in, followed by Jeremy. He pulls the door closed and looks around the room. Finally, his gaze falls on Bass and Miles who stand shoulder to shoulder. Bass is clearly exhausted, but his jaw is set with determination. Miles's brow is pulled into a scowl, and his eyes burn with intent.

"So, what's the plan?" Jeremy asks.

Miles nods at Bass. "We'll get Charlie back, and we're gonna make Blanchard pay."

Duncan smiles slowly, her eyes narrow. "That will be sweet."

"Gotta show that jackass that he messed with the wrong people, eh?" Will asks.

Miles puts his arm around Bass's shoulders once more. "Gonna show him he messed with the wrong _family_." He squeezes Bass in a sideways hug. "I know you don't think you have any family left, but you do. We're your family, Bass. All of us."

The ring of Bass's cell phone breaks the emotional moment. Monroe lurches for his phone. "Hello?"

"You ready for your final instructions?"

"Yeah." Bass nods to his friends as he speaks into his phone. "I'm ready."

* * *

Frank Blanchard lounges in a crushed velvet settee. Gould stands near the door at the back, staring out into the dark night. Frank brushes his hands against the red velvet and smiles at the luxurious texture, the likes of which might have made Elvis envious. The settee is perched on the small platform at the front of his church off to one side behind the pulpit. On the other side of the platform sits a shiny white baby grand piano.

Truthfully, this is not a church, although it looks like one. The pulpit has been artfully carved from solid oak. The cross that hangs on the wall behind it is similarly styled. The cross is centered between two elaborate stained glass windows. More of the colorful windows line the walls of the sanctuary which the pulpit overlooks. The seating area is lined with narrow padded pews.

You won't find a Bible or a hymnal in Blanchard's little church and nobody is ever going to have a spiritual reawakening here. This is a business, plain and simple. Pamphlets that showcase all of the offered services are stacked in tidy piles on a table in the back.

The small California town of Walnut is a tourist trap for folks who need a break from nearby Los Angeles. In this small hamlet, they can feel at home in a way that they can't in the big city. The pace is slow. Everyone knows everyone else. Shops and businesses (most of which are owned by Blanchard, himself) cater to every need. The Yellow Rose winery is the biggest attraction, but the old west styled saloon and boarding houses are also a draw. Every little street in the business district is lined with artisan shops and small cafes. A small general store and this wedding chapel round out the tourist district of Walnut.

Blanchard loves Vegas, but sometimes it feels too big - even to him. Those are the times he comes here. Everyone knows him in Walnut. Half of the residents are on his payroll. When he visits, Frank usually strolls around his winery, visits his local bed and breakfast, flirts with the white haired ladies who run the gift shop or sometimes he comes here to watch young kids getting hitched.

Tonight, there are no weddings on the agenda.

"He's here," Gould says from where he's been stationed near the entry. "Alone. Drove up in a Range Rover."

Frank feels his adrenaline building but makes an effort to look bored as he glances at his watch. Three a.m. on the nose. Monroe is a punctual bastard. Must be that military training. Frank spreads his hand out before him, admiring the gold rings on his fat fingers. "Got anything with him?"

"A silver suitcase."

Frank can't help the grin that splits his face. "Perfect."

* * *

Bass knows he looks like hell. The bags under his eyes are probably as big as the one grasped firmly in his fist. He's followed the instructions given, and he's hoping Blanchard will follow through with his end of the bargain.

The meeting place is a little wedding chapel. It is simple in design, clapboard siding painted white. Golden light is filtered through a prism of colors at each stained glass window. The door to the church is heavy maple with a large brass cross attached. It opens slowly when he pulls on the handle.

Gould is there, watching Bass warily, pushing strands of greasy hair behind his ears. Bass hears the door close at his back and doesn't acknowledge Gould's presence, walking past him into the interior of the chapel.

It is warm and inviting and under other circumstances might have made Bass smile. It reminds him of the little Baptist church back in Jasper where he and Miles had gone to Bible School one summer when they were kids.

But no matter how warm and inviting the interior is, tonight this place feels off. Alien. Wrong. He spies Frank right away. The fat bastard looks perfectly comfortable, sitting on a fancy red couch at the front. Bass walks toward him but stops when Blanchard says, "That's far enough."

Frank stands slowly and walks to the pulpit as if preparing to deliver a sermon. He grasps the sides of the polished oak and smiles down at Bass. "Back at the Alamo in Vegas I have an Elvis impersonator who handles the ceremonies, but folks in Cali are too prissy for that shit. We have a priest on call here in Walnut. Comes a-running whenever we need him."

"I really don't give a shit about your business, Frank. Where is Charlie?"

Blanchard shakes his head and grins. "Patience, Monroe. We'll get to that in good time."

Bass takes a step toward the stage, his fists clenched tight. He envisions how good it would feel to slice through the flab of Frank's throat with a sharp blade. He imagines making him pay in blood for what he's doing to Charlie. Gould materializes at Blanchard's side, pointing a gun at Bass's chest. "Stay."

Bass stills and he forces his mind to calm. Nothing good will come from Bass going off the rails. He needs to focus. He needs to stick to the plan.

Blanchard is oblivious to Bass's murderous thoughts, although he watches his visitor carefully. Blanchard nods to the silver colored suitcase "That mine?"

"I want to see Charlie. Then, it's yours."

"It's adorable how you think you're in charge here. Gould, bring me my goddamned money."

Gould advances slowly on Bass, his finger tensed on the trigger of his gun. "Hand it over."

"I only have half of it with me. You're gonna have to bring Charlie here. Then we can trade for the rest."

Frank is not pleased. "Hell. Maybe half is enough, Monroe." Gould chuckles with amusement.

Bass fights a burning urge to strangle both of them. "How about we just get on with this. Where is she?"

"You're gonna have to show me that case first. Just open it up."

Bass hesitates, but picks up the case and clicks it open. He shows it to Blanchard and Gould. The interior of the case is loosely packed with carefully wrapped stacks of bills.

Gould squints. "So, where's the rest?"

"Oh shut up, Gould." Blanchard steps down from his perch and walks closer. "Dump the money on the floor."

"What?" This is not what Bass was expecting.

"Just dump it out. I need to see the inside of the case."

Something in Blanchard's expression urges Bass to do as he's told. He dumps the money into a pile on the smooth oak floor. Frank doesn't even glance at it. His eyes are focused on the lining of the case. "This better be the same one Jason was sending me."

Bass frowns down at the case. There is nothing unusual about it. "Got it off his dad."

Frank Blanchard's face splits into a wide, ugly grin. "Well, then. That is good news indeed."

"What the hell is this all about? Why do you care about the case?"

"Well, you see - Jason Neville has a bit of a gambling problem. No. That's a lie. What he has isn't a problem. It's an all-consuming sickness. Honestly, the boy is a poster child for 1-800-BETSOFF."

Bass shrugs. "So, what?"

"Came to Vegas last Christmas. Had some cash and a lucky streak on the blackjack tables. I gave him some credit. Too much, maybe." Frank chuckles. "Set him up in a high roller suite. He started to lose on the second day. Was losing even bigger later that night. Gould confronted him. Told him he'd hit his limit and it was time to pay up."

"And?"

"That boy promised me a payday I couldn't say no to."

Bass is confused. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"See, Jason is stationed in Afghanistan. Army. He said he had met a guy who was willing to pay big bucks for American military secrets."

Bass keeps his expression neutral, but inside his head, the pieces are all falling into place. This is the connection he'd been missing all along. Connor's pictures showed Jason selling intel. Jason must have figured out Connor had something on him, had proof, so he killed him. Tom Neville knew Connor had it, too. He had followed Bass in order to make sure the pictures that had been in the Buckley CD never saw the light of day. That much, Bass had already figured. Now, Blanchard had provided him with the why-why Jason would have betrayed his country in the first place.

"Jason sold American military intel to pay back his debt?"

"Well, that's what it was in the beginning. Later, I got to thinking how much money I could make on my own if he just gave me the info directly. I have a lot of contacts that boy wouldn't have. You know...cut out the middleman, or whatever. His first two payments were just cash that he got from selling to his man over there. But then we re-negotiated his debt. His last delivery was supposed to be fifty thousand dollars cash and some primo intel, and then we'd be square."

"All I ever saw was the case and the cash. What intel are you looking for?"

Blanchard licks his lips. "It's inside the lining. Should be a flash drive."

"Fine. I'll give you the case after you give me Charlie."

"No." Blanchard shakes his head. "Can't do that."

Bass's spine tingles with fear. "What?"

"I just told you my whole goddamned story, Monroe." Blanchard cackles gleefully. "Just like the bad guys in a cheesy Saturday morning cartoon. Did you really think I'd just let you go? Let her go? Fine piece of ass like that? She'll make me a lot of money hooking in Vegas. A lot." Blanchard tilts his head, watching Monroe with an evil smile. "I'll be sure to break her in myself. By the time I'm done with her, she'll be begging to work the street."

Bass tightens his jaw and tries to calm his pulse. He's struggling to hold back, wanting nothing more than to wrap his hands around Blanchard's throat, even if he does get shot in the process. A tiny voice tells him to stick to the plan. He inhales deeply and lets the breath out.. "And me?"

"Oh, I've got plans for you too. We've been doing some dog fights in the basement of the Alamo. Turns out the underbelly of society really likes watching a fight to the death. Problem is getting fighters worth watching." Blanchard grins at Monroe. "I remember how good you used to be, so I know you'll put on a good show. Plus, this will make up for that money I lost on your ass all those years ago."

"I'm not fighting for you. Not ever."

Frank's eyes narrow and his lips twist cruelly. "What if I told you that's the only way I'll let Charlie go? What if you dying is the only way she lives?"

Bass is consumed by fear and pain. He thinks about how much he wants to see Charlie again, about how much he wants her to forgive him and how much he yearns for a second chance. But the thought of her suffering when he could put an end to it? Well, there's no choice.

"Fine. I'll fight, but only if I have assurance that she's free and safe first. Otherwise, you might as well kill me now."

"Well, that can be arranged too." Frank drawls with a cackle. "I just want to make sure my flash drive is in that case before I decide which way it's all gonna go." His smile drops, his expression deadly serious as he reaches for Bass.

* * *

 **A/N All my gratitude to TexasRevoFan for her amazing patience and her champ level beta skills AND to WildIrish who has been a supportive rock star of a friend throughout the past year as this fic has evolved. Without you two - there is no way this story would have made it this far.**

 **Thanks also to any pair of eyes still paying attention to this story. I appreciate each and every one of you.**

 **Song lyrics in this chapter courtesy of Jeff Buckley. If you haven't listened to _Grace_ , you should go do that now...**

 **For those wondering...yes, this was supposed to be the final chapter, but clearly it is not. However, the last chap is largely done so I'd guess you'll see it before the end of May?**

 **If you have a moment, please leave a comment. I really can't tell you how inspiring it is to hear what folks like or what questions they have or suggestions, etc. Each time a comment shows up in my inbox, I get a little urge to write more & quickly...it's a bit like a cattle prod, I guess. So if you want that final chapter sooner rather than later...you know how to make that happen. -Lemon**


	12. Chapter 12: Walnut

**Walnut, California**

The hour is late, and the lazy little town of Walnut is quiet and dark. The only light comes from antique streetlamps that line the brick paved roads of the business district.

Roughly a mile away from Blanchard's little wedding chapel, Will Strausser sits behind the wheel of his beloved GTO, watching the colonial style brick building that serves as Blanchard's local headquarters. His eyes scan the facade of the office and the building next to it - a stately three-story bed and breakfast that features a wide wrap-around porch, complete with wicker rocking chairs. Like most of the buildings on this street, the B&B is also owned by Frank Blanchard.

The neighborhood is quaint, but Strausser couldn't care less. Quaint really isn't his thing. He's chewing on a beef jerky stick and sipping a Red Bull. Iron Maiden thrums on a low volume through the interior of the car. Will's eyes are alert as he scans the area.

He hears a voice and taps a small earpiece in response. "Miles, that you?"

"Well, who the fuck else would it be? See anything yet?"

"Negative. Nothing to see here but touristy bullshit, and it's so fucking dark, I might as well be looking for black cats in a cave. What's going on over there?"

"I'm with Dove. We're making progress, but it's slow going. Blanchard owns the whole damn town, so she could be anywhere. Jeremy is watching the old saloon. Duncan is scouting the restaurant. Charlie will turn up. She's got to turn up."

Will feels worry sinking into his bones. "What about Bass?"

"Bass is with Frank. Listen, Will, we don't have much time. I think Frank is losing patience, and Bass is probably on the verge of doing something stupid." Miles's voice is heavy with tension. "We need to find Charlie pronto. Got it?"

* * *

Charlie hasn't moved in over an hour, feigning sleep. She'd started to wonder if Jeff would ever fall for her ploy when she sees him nod off out of the corner of her eye. He's slouched low on the sofa where he's been playing Minecraft off and on for hours. Evidently the zombies have finally worn him down. His chin rests on his chest but the glare from the screen reflects on his face, giving him an eerie appearance, even in sleep. The only other light in the room comes from a small Tiffany-style lamp that sits on a side table; its glow muted by the colored glass of the shade.

She's ready to make her move when Jeff's phone falls to his chest. The movement wakes him abruptly, but he's clearly done. Jeff rubs his eyes and stretches with a groan. He watches Charlie for a minute but when she doesn't stir, he shrugs, grabs a pillow and curls up on the couch, turning away from her.

In minutes, his snores echo through the room. Charlie's resulting smile is tired but genuine.

Finally.

She pivots carefully, pressing the small key which she'd retrieved earlier from its hiding place in her jeans pocket. Feeling her way blindly, she lines the key up with the tiny key hole and pushes it carefully. Her aim is off and she misses. Taking a deep breath, she tries again. Her fingers are shaky, and the key clinks softly against the polished oak of her chair when it slides out of her grasp.

"Fuck." Her voice is a whispered hiss.

Worried that her outburst might have roused Jeff, Charlie jerks her head up and glances his way. He shuffles in his sleep and snorts loudly. Deciding he won't be waking up anytime soon, she moves her hands to the space beside her hip where the key has fallen. The movement pulls at her shoulder again and makes her wrists sting, but she's determined.

A relieved sigh slips between her parted lips as the small click of the lock releases one of her wrists. She pulls her hands to the front of her body, rolling her shoulders in an effort to work out the kinks. She quickly unlocks the second cuff and looks around the room, taking stock.

Charlie stands, wincing at the loud crack of popping joints. She waits for a beat and then carefully moves toward the sofa where Jeff is snoozing and where her messenger bag is sitting between two fringed paisley throw pillows. She shoves the cuffs in her back pocket and is reaching for her bag when he rolls over.

Jeff's eyes are alert and his smile is cruel. In his hand, he holds a small 9mm pistol which he points at her chest. "Going somewhere?"

* * *

Randall Flynn shifts smoothly from sleep to wakefulness with the first ring of the phone. The hour is late, and the bedroom where he sleeps is dark save for the subtle glow of the screen. It's not his personal phone. The ringing device is his DOD emergency phone line. Before it can ring a second time, he picks it up and brings it to his ear. His voice is alert but guarded. "Flynn speaking."

"Sir, we have a problem."

Flynn rubs his temple with his free hand. "What kind of problem?"

"It's Neville, sir."

"Which one?"

"Jason. He's gone AWOL."

"AWOL? Are you sure?" His fist grips the phone tightly.

"Yes, Sir. By our estimates, he left maybe four hours ago."

"And his destination?"

"He told one of the privates that he needed to find his dad, so my guess is he's planning to head back to the States. Said he had to make sure his dad delivered something. Said it was time sensitive, Sir."

Flynn takes a steadying breath and lets his mind briefly flirt with all of the different things Tom might have been delivering for Jason and for which Jason would risk a court martial. None of them are good. When he speaks, none of his concern is evident in his voice. "Find him and bring him to me. I don't care how you do it, but find him. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

* * *

Will is bored. He'd been promised some action, for fuck's sake. Miles had said maybe he could even kick some ass. So far, the ass-kicking opportunities have proven to be woefully lacking in this piece of shit town.

He's ready to turn the key and drive around the block again when something catches his eye. In the dull glow from the street lamp, he watches a second story window open and two perfectly shaped legs pop out. The legs are followed by a tight ass and after a few moments, the rest of the woman is on display as she dangles from the window sil. "Well, what do we have here?" One corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk.

Will Strausser isn't bored anymore.

The woman's grip on the window seems steady even with a bag hanging over her shoulder. Her long golden curls are the proof Will needs. He watches as she drops to the roof of the wide porch that circles the building. In less than a minute, she is on the ground and heading for the sidewalk. Will presses the button on his earpiece. "Hey Miles?"

"Yeah, Will?"

"The Eagle has landed."

"She's okay?" Relief is evident in his voice.

"She is more than okay, Miles. She is prime -"

Miles growls. "Not the time, Strausser. Is she safe?"

"Yeah. She's safe."

"Better fucking keep her that way."

* * *

The words in Bass's earpiece seem distant, but the message is clear, as is the relieved tone in Miles's voice. "You can wrap it up, Bass. Will found Charlie. She's safe."

Bass glances up at Blanchard, relief and exhaustion pouring through his veins in equal measure. "So, you got everything you need?"

Frank scowls. "What the hell are you talking about, Monroe? No, I do not have everything I need. I want you to hand over the damn suitcase. You know that."

A slow, tired smile appears on Bass's face, easing the tiny wrinkles in his forehead. "Wasn't talking to you, asshole."

Blanchard looks at him blankly. "What?"

The chapel door opens and Miles Matheson saunters inside. "He was talking to me, actually."

"Who the hell are you?" Blanchard looks nervous for the first time since Monroe had shown up.

"You kidnapped my niece, Fucknut, and now you're going to jail. Don't drop the soap."

"I'm not going anywhere. Gould, take care of this asshole. Hell, take care of both of them **."**

Gould raises his arm, pointing his gun at Miles. "Stop right there." Frank's henchman looks just as tense as his boss. His sleazy grin has faded into a nervous frown.

"Sure thing," Miles replies. "I'm not going anywhere. You are." He gestures at the door behind him. "Let me introduce you to some of my friends."

Malcolm Dove enters through the door, followed by three armed FBI agents. "Remember me, Frank?" Dove is smirking. "Back in Texas in '98? I brought you up on some racketeering charges. You skated."

"Dove, you piece of shit." Blanchard grins, but his eyes dart back and forth nervously. "I'll get off this time, too."

"Doubtful. We got your whole confession on tape - thanks for that, by the way. Also, the girl is safe. I'm guessing she'll be happy to testify against your sorry fat ass. Oh, and then there's the flash drive you had such a hard-on for. Pretty sure we have enough this time."

Blanchard's smile disappears. "Not gonna happen." Suddenly, he lunges for Dove.

Bass sticks his foot out and trips Frank, who falls with a thump to the floor.

"Thanks, Monroe," Dove says. "Didn't really have time to talk earlier, but I'm glad this all worked out okay." He glances back at the federal agents. "Do your thing, fellas. He's all yours."

Blanchard scrambles to stand, but his heft works against him. "You sorry piece of shit."

Dove shakes his head. "Watch it, asshole. I rode a red eye to get here. I'm exhausted and hungry, and I don't want to look at your ugly face anymore." He glances over at Miles and Bass. "You guys ready to go? There will be paperwork, but then maybe we can hit a steakhouse or something."

Miles follows his boss as he heads to the door. "We gotta talk to Charlie first. I want to make sure she's really okay. Then, definitely steak. Bass, you comin'?"

"I'll be there in a second, Miles." Bass kneels down on the floor, bending over to whisper into Blanchard's ear. The crime boss's hands are cuffed at his back. "You know, when I realized you had Charlie? I really wanted to hurt you. Part of me still does." Bass's face is tense but calm. "I imagined all the ways I could end you. None of them were quick."

"Yeah, well - looks like you missed your chance." Blanchard struggles feebly against his cuffs.

"Killing you would have felt really good." His voice lowers, his breath hot on Frank's ear.. "But knowing you'll rot in prison? That's a hell of a consolation prize."

* * *

Charlie walks along the sidewalk under the dim glow of antique street lamps. The night is full of shadow and the breeze is warm. It's a beautiful night, but she feels uneasy, clutching her bag tightly to her shoulder.

She senses the car even before she hears the low hum of the big engine. The poison apple green is recognizable even on this dark street. Charlie isn't sure why, but seeing the familiar car eases some of the tension in her shoulders.

Will Strausser rolls down his window and inches along beside Charlie when it becomes clear she's not stopping. "Hey, Charlie."

"Let me guess. You've come to rescue me?"

"Sort of?"

"No thanks. I don't need to be rescued."

"Get in. Bass is waiting. He's worried."

She can't help herself. "Is he okay? Jeff said that Frank was going to kill him -" She breaks off, clamping her lips shut.

"He's fine. Worried about you, but fine. Now get in and I'll take you to him."

She shakes her head and begins to walk. The car eases forward, keeping up with her steady pace. "I have more than learned my lesson about getting in cars with strangers," she says. "And nice try, but we both know Bass isn't worried about me."

"Well, hell. I guess Miles was wrong." There is humor in Will's tone. He is clearly enjoying himself.

She looks his way but doesn't slow her pace. "Wrong about what?"

"Miles said you were smart."

"What's that supposed to mean? I'm not smart because I won't get in your car? Pretty sure that's actually quite a smart decision on my part."

"You're not smart if you think that Bass isn't worried sick. He's a mess. Almost went crazy when he found out Blanchard had you."

She frowns and without realizing it, her steps slow. She feels a familiar worry settle in her gut, remembering how Bass had been when she'd met him. "What do you mean when you say 'crazy'? Is he okay?"

"Why don't you get in my goddamned car and I'll take you to him? You can see for yourself."

She turns and faces the car. He eases it into park. Their gazes lock for a long moment. Charlie's eyes narrow as she sizes him up. "I haven't had great luck with trusting strangers lately."

Will grins as he leans over to open the passenger door. "Just get in. Miles and Bass are my friends and your safety is very important to both of them. I promise you have nothing to fear from me."

"Fine." She climbs into the passenger seat.

He waits till she's buckled in and then he revs the engine. "Ready?"

"I guess so."

They drive down the quaint tree-lined streets of Walnut, and Will turns to her, one hand casually resting on top of the steering wheel. "So, who hit you? Was it Blanchard?"

She prods her jaw carefully with her fingers, wincing. "Nope. It was the bartender from the War Clan Casino. Name is Jeff."

Will whistles under his breath. "What an idiot. Bass is going to kill him."

"He might already be dead." She shrugs. "Not sure."

Will grins as her words sink in. "I really like you."

"Uh, thanks?"

Will turns onto a side street, but his gaze flits over to her. "What do you mean he might be dead?"

"He had me cuffed to a chair. I got free, but then he pulled a gun on me. I guess I lost my temper."

Will chuckles. "And what does you losing your temper look like?"

"I guess it looks like me picking up a lamp and breaking it over Jeff's stupid head." She shrugs. "The lamp broke into a bunch of pieces and they were all over the couch. All over him. He was bleeding. I didn't even check for a pulse. I just tied him up with the cord and left."

"Why'd you climb out the window?"

"Didn't know if there were more of Blanchard's idiots waiting outside the door to the room we were in. I was just being careful."

Will points to her jaw, which is already a purplish black. "That hurt? You got some Tylenol or something?"

She nods and begins to dig through her bag as Will watches out of the corner of his eye. When he starts to laugh, she glances up. "What?"

"I think those are mine." He points at a bit of shiny metal peeking out of her open bag.

Charlie feels a blush rise into her cheeks. "I –" She breaks off, shaking her head as she runs a finger over the cool steel of the handcuffs. "I'll pay you for them, okay?"

"No need. Consider them my gift to you. What's the story, though?"

"Uh. I don't think…"

"It's okay. Jer and I already figured out the tale you told Miles was bullshit. Your uncle is so wrapped up in you being happy that I don't think he questioned anything you said. What did Bass really do?"

Charlie continues to run her fingers over the cuffs. She speaks quietly without looking his way. "Bass kidnapped me, but it wasn't him."

"What does that mean?"

"I mean, he took me, but it wasn't really him. It was his grief and his rage and his sense of hopelessness. He wasn't prepared at all, and he was in so much pain - physical pain, but emotional pain too. You know?"

Will nods slowly, remembering Connor. "Yeah, I know. What else?"

"At first I was really scared. He threw me in his trunk, and I thought he was going to kill me, or you know - worse. When we got to your house, he realized that he needed to tie me up but he didn't have supplies. He found your box." She holds up the cuffs. "Found these."

"And then what?"

She's quiet for a long time, staring into the distance. "Things changed, I guess. I watched _him_ change. He was grieving and haunted and he was drinking way too much. Sometimes he would talk to someone who wasn't there." Charlie glances over at Will. "It was Connor. Bass talked to him a lot."

"Jesus," Will mutters. "So what happened? He seemed pretty normal in Vegas."

She shrugs. "He got a little bit better after a while. Stopped drinking so much. Once I realized he wasn't going to hurt me, I started to find ways I could help him. Helping people is what I do."

"How did you help him?"

"He took me to Jasper. He didn't realize I knew that town, but my grandparents used to live there. I figured out who he was after a while, and then he got sick and I took care of him. Later, I told him I knew who he was, and by then I'd figured out my mom was the one responsible for the whole damn thing –"

She breaks off when Will hisses in distaste. Charlie grins. "Not a fan of Rachel's?"

"I don't want to hurt your feelings or anything."

"You won't."

He nods. "Fine. Not a fan would be a gross understatement. I think she might be the devil."

Charlie throws her head back and laughs. "You might be right." Her grin doesn't fade even when the laughter does. "Maybe you are okay after all."

Will smirks. "That's very true, but you weren't done. What happened after you told him you knew who he was and your mom's part in it all?"

"Well, we started working together, I guess. He wanted answers about Connor's death, and I wanted to know why my mom thought bribing someone to kidnap me was a good idea." She sighs. "Anyway, by then, he'd stopped needing to tie me up, and I stopped wanting to get away."

"And then?"

"Then I realized that it wasn't just that I wanted to help him. It was more."

"What else did you want?" Will bites back a smile, feeling confident he knows where this is going.

"You're going to think I'm stupid and immature and maybe I am."

"I don't think that. What did you want?"

"Not what. Who. Him. I wanted him. Not that it mattered. It was one-sided." Charlie's sigh is low and sad.

Will frowns. "What if you're wrong? What if Bass figured out he wanted you too?"

She thinks about her time with Bass - about the scary early days and the car ride and Jasper. She thinks about the escaped pedophile he'd saved her from and that time he brought her burgers and tank tops. She remembers the first time they'd slept together in that shitty hotel in Oklahoma. She remembers the rest stop in the desert and the way things had changed between them even more after Neville was dead. She remembers the night spent in the red room in Vegas. She remembers how incredibly right it had felt to have Bass's body pressed close to hers once more, knowing it would probably be the last time but hoping she was wrong...

And she remembers just how broken she'd felt when he drove away.

When she speaks her voice is low and quiet. "He told me we were better off apart. He told me I'd get over him."

Will shrugs, "I know he left you, but I don't think he felt he had a choice. I mean, listen to everything you just said happened. What was he supposed to do? I'm sure he figured you would move on and knowing Bass, his own feelings for you were probably making him crazy. He's been hurt a lot. I think sometimes maybe he just doesn't want to hurt anymore."

"Maybe. I still hoped he'd give me a chance. I was worried about him and wanted to go with him. He said no and left me there instead."

"Well, yeah. But he came back."

She tilts her chin stubbornly. "Did he, though? Seems to me like he sent you. That's not the same."

"Jesus, Charlie. He's been with Blanchard tonight, nearly getting himself killed for _you_." Will scowls. "Don't be a little bitch. It doesn't suit you, and he deserves better. Hell, he's waiting for you right now."

Charlie's face warms in embarrassment and anger. "Yeah, but..."

"No but. Bass and Miles have been working all night with the FBI and some friend of Miles's from back in Wisconsin. Bass stalled Blanchard while the rest of us have been out looking for you, and it could have turned out bad. Really bad."

She sucks in a harsh breath. "But you said he's okay?"

"Yeah, he's fine. As soon as I told Miles that you were okay, the feds moved in. They just carted Blanchard away. "

Charlie shoulders sag with relief. "So, it's over?"

"The Blanchard part is over. I'm pretty sure the you and Bass part is just beginning. He's physically fine. The emotional stuff – well, I don't know if that's something that will ever really go away. He cares, though – probably more than you'll ever know. I get that he hurt you. I think he hurt himself just as much. Seems to me like you're both crazy about each other and you're both being idiots. Time to stop that, don'cha think?"

Charlie chews her lip, avoiding eye contact. "Maybe."

"Maybe? Bullshit." Strausser smacks the palm of his hand against his steering wheel. "Hell, you miss him so much, you kept a fucking souvenir." Will nods toward her bag where the cuffs are now tucked away.

Charlie fidgets with the strap on her bag. "I'm not really sure why I kept them, but it's good that I did."

"Why's that?"

"Cause Blanchard's idiot minion found them in my bag and used them on me, not bothering to check to see if I had the key. Evidently I am destined to be kidnapped only by men who are woefully unprepared."

Will's frown fades and he laughs, shaking his head. "Where did you have it?" For the first time, Will's eyes fall to her torn tank top. "The, uh, key I mean?"

"Keep your eyes above sea level, _Bass's Friend_ ," she says with a frown, pulling the torn fabric to cover her breasts. "It was in my jeans pocket." She glances down at herself and frowns, suddenly feeling far too exposed. "Don't suppose you have a shirt I could borrow?"

Will pulls the car over without hesitation, jumps out and opens the trunk. He returns with a clean gray tee shirt. "Here." Will settles back in the driver's seat but doesn't put the car in gear.

"Thanks." She pulls the shirt on over her ruined tank, tying the bottom at her waist before leaning back and nodding at Will. "Okay. Let's go."

"You're ready to talk to Bass?"

"Yeah. No. I don't know." She takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. "What the hell. Let's do this."

* * *

"So, you and Charlie?" Miles sits down next to where Bass is slumped on a padded pew, staring at the floor.

"Yeah."

"You sure that's a good idea?"

Bass looks up, his eyes bleary and bloodshot. "Can we hold off on this particular conversation? Right now I just want to know she's safe." He looks at the door. "Why aren't they here? You said they were coming."

"I did hold off. When Duncan first told me, I promised her I'd wait to talk to you til we knew Charlie's okay. Will said that she's fine. So, she's fine."

"Better be," Bass grumbles.

"What are you expecting from her anyway? You know she's like twenty-three?"

"Yes, I'm well aware that there's an age difference. It might not matter. I don't even know if she wants to be with me. I made some mistakes, Miles. Big ones. May have already screwed it up."

"But? I feel like there's a 'but' coming."

"But if I didn't screw it all up and if she'll forgive me; then you and I can talk about how inappropriate you think my feelings are. I'll listen and hell, you can even hit me if you want to."

"That would change your mind? Me hitting you?" Miles cocks an eyebrow. "Cause I could hit you _now_."

Bass scowls. "Never said I'd change my mind. Said I'd listen. I love her. You aren't going to scare me into running from that. Definitely not just by hitting me."

"Love, huh? Wait. You saying I don't hit hard?"

"Do you need me to say it out loud?"

Miles shakes his head. "Is this about that time in Kabul? Because that wasn't a fair fight, and you know it. I was really drunk and I was caught off guard and - "

A flicker of a smile crosses Bass's features. "Nah. You weren't caught off guard. You were caught hitting like a girl."

The two old friends look at each other. This banter is old and familiar. These two have known each other for so long, with so many shared experiences between them, there isn't much that could truly hurt their friendship.

Miles sighs. "Ah, hell. You really love her?"

"Yeah. I do."

"I guess I'll just have to get used to it, won't I?"

"Yeah. I guess you will."

* * *

Will pulls up in front of a small church. Charlie spots Bass's Range Rover, Duncan's Tesla, and two other cars she doesn't know. She tries to keep her voice even but finds that the thought of seeing Bass again is causing her heart to pound. "Everyone's here?"

Will nods. "Well, sure they are. You have quite the fan club, you know."

She sighs. "Let's go in and get this over with." She takes a deep breath and then reaches for the heavy brass door handle. She pushes the door open and scans the interior of the church, looking for familiar faces.

Miles is the first one she sees, and she's wrapped up in his arms before she can even speak. "You're okay?" he asks, pulling back. When he sees the bruise on her jaw, he glares at Will. "What the fuck? You told me she was okay?"

Strausser leans against one of the church pews and crosses his arms. "Oh shut it, Miles. She handled it."

"What does that mean?"

Charlie doesn't wait to hear Will's answer because her eyes have met Bass's. She forgets that anyone else is in the room as she takes him in. He looks rough. His face is pale. His eyes are red. He looks utterly exhausted. Charlie pushes away from Miles and walks toward Bass. He moves her way too. The space between them evaporates into nothingness and she's in his arms and suddenly everything comes roaring into focus.

His hands curl into her hair and he kisses her temple. She can feel hot tears on her face but isn't sure if they are his or hers. "I'm so sorry," he whispers against her skin over and over. She nuzzles against his neck, soaking up his familiar scent and the way his body curves around hers.

For the first time since he'd left her in front of her mom's place, she feels okay. She feels safe. Charlie pulls away just enough to look into his eyes. "You look like hell," she says.

He smiles, but his smile fades. He lifts his fingers to her face and traces the edges of the bruise on her jaw. His lips tremble. "They hurt you," he says, his voice gruff. "Did Frank do this?"

She shakes her head. "It was that bartender from Duncan's casino. He works for Frank on the side. Found me in LA and told me that Duncan was worried about me. I shouldn't have believed him, but -"

Duncan moves in. "Jeff? Are you kidding me? I'm going to kill that little mother fucker."

Will pipes up. "Oh yeah, Miles, you should call your fed buddies and tell them they can find that Jeff fella on the second floor of Blanchard's bed and breakfast. It's the room in the front on the north end."

"What did you do to him, Will?"

Will grins and nods toward Charlie. "Like I said, Charlie took care of him. Wasn't me." He nods with pride to Charlie. "Girl can take care of herself."

"But she shouldn't have had to." Bass's voice is laced with regret as he runs his fingers through her hair. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have left you there. I should have known -"

"How would you have known anything about this?" Charlie pulls away, carefully moving Bass's hands back to his sides. "You left because you didn't want to be with me. What happened next wasn't your fault or your problem." She crosses her arms.

"Charlie," Bass pleads. "Please listen to me. I screwed up. I know that now. I figured it out before I even got the call from Blanchard's guys. I was going to come back to LA and find you. I was going to tell you that I - that I never should have left."

Charlie's resolve falters slightly. "You were?"

"Yeah. I was on the beach, spreading Connor's ashes and, well, things became clear." He puts his hands on her shoulders, squeezing gently. "I realized how important you are to me."

She feels fresh tears welling. "I don't know. You were so sure before about wanting to be alone. Now you say you want to be with me, but what if you change your mind?"

"I won't. I can't lose you again, Charlie. I know I don't deserve you. I know I don't deserve anything after all that I did." His eyes search hers.

She can see something there that she has never seen before in him. "What are you saying?"

"I think I love you, Charlie. I was just too stupid to realize it."

"Amen," Baker says.

Will nods somberly. "Son of a bitch always has been pretty stupid."

Bass glares at them for just a moment, but then his gaze is trained on Charlie once more. "You should hate me, and maybe you do. But I'm hoping that you don't."

Charlie is dazed by Bass's confession, but feels strangely calm. She shakes her head.. "I don't hate you."

The smile that spreads across his face is broad and it makes the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkles. "You not hating me is a start. I'll be patient."

"That's not a start," Charlie says with a shake of her head. "This is." She leans up on her tiptoes and presses her lips to his. Bass responds hungrily, pulling her tightly to his body.

The kiss starts slow but deepens quickly. Bass nudges her lips apart, delving between them with his tongue. She moans into his mouth and drops her hands to his ass, yanking his body impossibly closer. They alternate between sweet and needy, rushed and slow.

"Uh, this is getting awkward," Jeremy says after the kissing shows no sign of winding down. "Do you suppose they forgot we're here?"

Miles walks closer and clears his throat. "As much as I love watching my best friend make out with my niece, maybe we should wrap this up?"

Bass and Charlie pull apart reluctantly, their eyes locked in a heated gaze. She reaches up, brushing her fingertips along his brow. His pupils are so wide, the blue is almost gone. Her gut clenches with how much she'd missed him and with how happy she is that he's here with her now. When she speaks, her voice is shaky. "So where?"

Bass's thoughts are still heavy with the memory of her lips on his and the way her body fits so perfectly to his own. He thinks of the danger she was in and he grasps her close once again. He slides his arms possessively around her back. "Where what?"

Charlie smirks. "You said that you were ready for a fresh start. Where do you have in mind?"

"Oh." His face breaks into a genuine smile as complete relief washes over him. Finally, everything is starting to fall into place. "Anywhere you want to go, Charlie. Anywhere at all."

"Good answer," she says with a wink.

* * *

Miles pulls Duncan close, burying his face in her neck. "Get me away from here. I don't know if I can take any more of this." He nods toward Bass and Charlie. "I'm trying to be a good guy, but damnit. I know him too well and I'm worried that this is going to end very badly. Hell, we were in my dad's car when Bass lost his virginity to Cari Anne Butler sophomore year."

"You were there with him? That's kinky," Duncan says, an evil grin spreading across her face.

"Well to be fair, I was in the front seat doing the same thing with Ariel Spencer while Bass and Cari Anne were in the back." He shakes his head. "That's not the point. The point is that he's Bass and she's Ben's little girl and now…. Jesus."

Duncan chuckles as she pats Miles on the back. "Easy, there. Pretty sure Charlie is grown up enough to know what she wants, and I think she's exactly where she wants to be."

"Damn it. I knew you were going to say that."

Duncan is still laughing when her phone rings. She glances at the display before answering. "Hey, Vincent. What's going on?" She listens for a full minute before turning to face Miles. Her face has lost it's color and her body stiffens.

She clenches her phone tightly but he leans in close, trying to listen to the voice on the other end, but all he can make out is an excited buzz.

Duncan sounds on edge when she gets a chance to respond to Vincent. "How is that even possible? Frank's in custody. I literally just watched the feds take him to jail."

There's another pause, and then Duncan is running her fingers through her hair. Her eyes search out Miles's, and she doesn't hide the fear that she's feeling. "Are you absolutely sure?"

She listens for a moment and nods slowly. "Okay. Yeah. I'll tell them." She ends the call and sucks in a deep breath.

"What's going on?" Miles asks. "Something wrong at the Clan?"

Duncan's exhalation is slow and shaky. "No Miles. The problem isn't in Vegas. The problem is here."

"What?"

She's explaining the situation to Miles when Bass approaches, sensing trouble. Charlie is at his side. "Guys? What's wrong?"

Duncan's frown deepens. "It's Blanchard."

"What about him?" Bass asks, uncertain. "He should be getting printed just about now, right?"

"Someone evidently let him make a call." Duncan looks back and forth from Charlie to Bass.

"So what?" Charlie asks.

"Just tell us. What's going on?" Bass asks. His fingers grip tighter around Charlie's.

Duncan sighs. "A hit, Bass. Frank has put out a hit on you. Big money. Evidently he's more pissed than I'd even figured he could be."

"A hit on me? Jesus. Why can't that fucker let it go?" Bass shakes his head at Charlie. "I'm sorry. Looks like we'll have to postpone that fresh start. I need to take care of this."

"No," Charlie says. "Not alone. I'm not going to let you leave me again."

Duncan steps forward, trying to get their attention. "Hey, I wasn't finished."

"What else is there?"

Duncan shifts her weight from foot to foot. She looks at all the faces looking back at her with concern. Miles has a hand pressed against his mouth as the pieces begin to fall into place in his head. Jeremy and Will are clearly tense, waiting for bad news. Bass looks worried but stoic. Charlie has pulled closer to Bass and his arm wraps around her shoulders.

"Come on guys, what else? What aren't you telling us?" Charlie's nerves are back on edge. Clearly something is very wrong.

Miles steps behind Duncan. His voice wavers as he answers for her. "Frank put out a hit on you, Bass, but he also put one out on Charlie." Duncan nods and Miles continues. "Guys, you're both in danger, and based on the stuff Dove was telling me earlier, when Blanchard wants someone dead..."

Bass pulls Charlie closer. "Fuck," he mutters. "I should have killed that asshole when I had the chance."

Will steps forward. "What can we do to help?"

"Call the feds and get them back over here," Jeremy suggests. "These two are probably going to have to go into witness protection."

Duncan shakes her head slowly. "No. Blanchard probably has contacts within the bureau. How else did he even get a phone this soon after his arrest? No. We need a different alternative, and I think I have it."

"What's your plan?" Miles asks.

"I'm gonna call Nora."

Jeremy and Will exchange glances and Will grins. "I'd love to have Nora as _my_ bodyguard. How do I get Blanchard to put a hit on me?"

"Not funny," Miles says but his shoulders relax slightly. "Nora knows how to handle these kinds of situations, though. She'll know what we need to do next."

"You think a bodyguard is enough to keep us safe?" What are we supposed to do until we hear from her?" Charlie asks.

Miles puts a comforting hand on Charlie's shoulder. "She's not a bodyguard, kid. She's more than that."

Bass sighs. "Nora used to work overseas with Duncan. She's a trained fighter, an explosives expert, and most importantly for us - a magician."

"What?" Charlie is clearly confused. "Like card tricks?"

"No. Duncan says. "Nora disappears people. She offers a black market version of witness protection. She knows how to give people a new life with no trace the government, or criminals like Blanchard, can ever find."

Bass looks down at Charlie. "Sounds like we might get that fresh start sooner rather than later."

Charlie's thoughts go to her time in Blanchard's presence and she tucks herself into Bass's arms. A feeling of safety and rightness settles over her. "Yeah. Sooner sounds good to me."

Miles takes charge. "That's settled then. We'll get you a hotel room for now." He turns to Will and Jeremy. "You two watch them while Duncan and I contact Nora. We'll let you know as soon as we have some sense of what the next step is."

"Wait." Bass puts a hand on Duncan's shoulder. "How much is this going to cost? I know it's not cheap."

"For two of you, Nora will want half a million." Duncan's chin lifts. "It's worth it."

"I don't have that kind of money. You know that." Bass runs his free hand through his curls. His other hand grips Charlie's tightly.

"We'll get money from my Mom," Charlie offers. "I can just ask her to sign over my trust early. She might do it."

"No." Bass's frown deepens. "We aren't involving your Mom."

"You have Connor's benefits," Jeremy offers.

Miles puts an arm around Bass's shoulders. "Did you ever do anything with Shelly's life insurance?"

"Paid off the house in Jasper with it. The house is for sale now, but no way will it sell in time to help."

Duncan steps forward. Her eyes are wet but her jaw is set stubbornly. "I'll buy you out of your part of the clan and I'll buy your car too. You'll need different wheels anyway. I'm sure Frank noticed all of our vehicles when we showed up."

Bass does some math in his head. "Maybe we can make that work."

"If you're short," Miles says, "I'll dip into my rainy day account. And I still have contacts back home. I can make some calls. Maybe help with the house selling there."

Duncan nods. "That's settled, then. We'll cobble it all together. Bass, give me your account numbers. I have some work to do."

"Wait," Charlie says. "Bass, you can't do all that for me."

Bass looks at her, his eyes icy blue, his expression fierce. "Charlie, you are the _only_ reason I'm doing this."

* * *

The digital clock on the hotel's bedside table shows that an hour has passed since they'd said their goodbyes to Duncan and Miles. Bass and Charlie had been told to stay inside the room – a room they'd been checked into under false names. Will and Jeremy are keeping watch. Will is right outside their door. Jeremy sits in the entryway on the ground floor.

The room itself is definitely a step up from the dive hotels they'd stayed in on their road trip, but neither of them seem to care. Bass paces the floor. Charlie watches him from where she sits on the edge of the bed. "You need to relax a little. They're going to figure something out. This Nora person sounds capable."

"She is more than capable. Nora is crazy good at what she does. That's not the problem."

"What is the problem then?"

"I hate that you're in danger. This is - it's all my fault. I hate that we're going to be on the run. I hate that I can't give you the life you deserve. By the time Duncan pays Nora, I won't be able to give you anything at all." He falters when he hears her laugh. "What?"

"I worked in a homeless shelter, Bass. I worked there as an unpaid volunteer. I paid for a room in a shitty apartment with tips from a late night waitressing gig. I could have had money if that's what I wanted. My mom was always dangling money in my face. I've never wanted money. She offered me a job at her lab. I turned her down. I don't want her money and I don't want your money and I don't want you to feel like you should be buying me anything at all." Charlie is breathless when she finally stops her tirade.

Bass stops pacing. He walks to Charlie and holds out a hand. She takes it and stands. Bass squeezes her fingers. "You are an amazing woman, Charlotte Matheson."

"No. I'm not."

"Yeah, you are. I've never known anyone like you. You are independent and kind. You can take care of yourself but you also have a good heart and a desire to help others. You make me want to be a better person."

Charlie feels a blush in her cheeks. "You aren't so bad yourself, when you aren't kidnapping me and throwing me in a trunk."

He smirks. "You're never gonna let me forget that, are you?"

"Not a chance."

He reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Hey, I know you and your mom aren't close, but after Nora tucks us away somewhere, you won't be able to contact her. You okay with that?"

"Yeah. I honestly don't care if I ever talk to my mom again."

He chuckles. "Just one more thing we have in common."

Charlie's responding smile is sad. "What about Miles? Will we be able to talk to him?"

"I don't think so." Bass pulls her closer. "I guess we'll see. Miles is a stubborn bastard. He'll probably try to figure out a way…"

"Yeah." She bites her lip. "I hope he does. I would really miss him."

"Me, too."

Charlie rests her head on Bass's shoulder, the sound of his steady heartbeat calms her in a way she'd be hard pressed to explain. "I missed you, ya know," she whispers. "When you left me in LA, I missed you more than I should have."

"I shouldn't have done that - left you the way I did. I get it now."

"I was so worried about you, but I was trying to stay calm and not let that fear overwhelm me."

He kisses her temple. "What were you worried about?"

"You were going to scatter Connor's ashes, and all I could think about was those early days when we were together and you hinted that you were going to kill yourself after you said goodbye to him." She shakes her head. "I didn't want that."

"I don't think I wanted that either. Not really. Haven't wanted it for a while now. You're a big part of that change, you know?"

"So, I fixed you with my stubborn Matheson wit and my youth and my glass is half full attitude?" She teases him softly.

Bass's smile falters as he wraps her more tightly in his arms. "I'm still broken, Charlie. There are parts of me -" He hesitates, "Parts of me that are probably never going to heal completely."

Her smile is gone. "Because of Connor?"

"Because of Connor. Because of my wife and our baby. Because of my parents. My sisters. Friends I lost in the Marines. I've lost so much, so many. Maybe I'll always be broken."

Charlie leans back and looks into his blue eyes which shine with unshed tears. She places her hands on his chest, moving them slowly up until she can link her fingers around his neck. She opens her mouth to speak but closes it and waits before starting again. "I'm sorry. That was a stupid thing to say – I know I didn't fix anything."

"No. It's okay. I'm not fixed, but I'm better and I owe that to you." He smiles softly, lazily rubbing circles into the skin on her lower back. He dips down and kisses her on the mouth. She opens for him, letting his tongue delve inside. She chases it with her own before pulling away.

When she speaks, Charlie's voice is a soft whisper. "Can I show you again?"

"Show me what?"

She winds her fingers through his curls and presses her body flush with his. Her breath is hot on his cheek. "That life is worth living?"

A feeling of rightness settles over Bass as he sighs against her temple. "Yeah, show me."

Charlie sinks into him, leaning up on tiptoes to capture his mouth in a heated kiss. He wraps his arms around her, stroking her back up and down, loving the way she shivers under his touch. He hooks his fingers under the hem of the gray tee shirt, tugging out the knot she'd tied at the front before pulling it over her head.

She looks at him with a question in her lust filled eyes, when he freezes. She follows his gaze, realizing that this is the first he's seen of the torn tank top.

"Charlie," he whispers, his voice breaking. "Jesus, Charlie. I'm so -"

She brings a finger to his lips and shakes her head. "Nothing happened. I'm okay. We're okay."

Bass shakes his head. "If you hadn't gotten away?"

"But I did. And I'm here, and we're wasting time talking about things that didn't happen."

This seems to break through and Bass slowly nods. "Yeah, okay. You're right. I am wasting time." He inhales and then lets out the breath slowly, He reaches for the tank, but Charlie beats him to it, tossing it over her shoulder.

"See?" She asks, gesturing to the white push up bra that frames and accentuates her breasts perfectly. "No harm done."

Bass smiles and the tension he'd been feeling fades. "I better be sure." He expertly reaches behind and unsnaps her bra with a flick of his fingers. Charlie lets it fall, watching him as he takes her in. Bass leans down and takes a stiffened nipple between his lips, sucking gently.

Charlie weaves the fingers of one hand through his curls, holding his head in place. "Love when you do that," she purrs.

He lets go of the nipple and without warning picks Charlie up and carries her to the bed. "I want to give you all the time and attention you deserve, but this might be quick. It's been a long day and I'm tired."

She grins up at him. "I don't mind. Besides, we have all of our lives for you to give me the attention I deserve."

"That's true." His smile is warm and so full of love that Charlie's heart constricts. She isn't sure how she ever got this lucky, but she can't imagine any way she could be happier than she is right now. Bass begins to pull off his clothes and the sight of his leanly muscled frame reminds her that there is one way she might be happier.

Charlie scrambles to shed her boots, socks and jeans. When their naked bodies connect, everything else fades away. Their mouths meet in a reverent, leisurely kiss. Charlie's legs fall open and Bass settles into the cradle of her sex. He lines up and eases in without breaking the kiss and begins to move with slow, steady strokes. She is wet and hot and the only thought in his head in this moment is that she feels like home.

"Love you so damn much, Charlie," he whispers against her lips.

"Love you too," she answers as the promise of release swells within.

* * *

A new dawn breaks in brilliant shades of orange, pink and purple. Charlie is freshly showered and dressed. Her hair hangs in long damp curls as she pulls aside the drapes to watch the changing sky through the hotel window. Bass comes to stand behind her, gently massaging her shoulders as she leans into him. He tenderly kisses her temple, breathing in the scent of her shampoo and luxuriating in the feel of her body against his.

"It's all going to be okay, isn't it?" she asks. Her voice is a whisper.

He trails small kisses along the column of her throat and his lips linger there, just barely touching the skin. "Yeah. I think everything's gonna be alright."

They pull apart and turn when someone knocks softly. Bass walks across the room, picks up his gun from where he'd left it on a side table and looks through the peep hole. "It's Jeremy," he says over his shoulder as he opens the door.

Jeremy pokes his head in tentatively. "Everybody decent?"

Bass rolls his eyes. "Yes, asshole. Get in here."

Jeremy's smile fades and he's all business. "Hey, Duncan's downstairs. One of her guys from Vegas brought you some new wheels. You ready to go?"

Charlie and Bass exchange looks and then they turn to Jeremy. "Yeah," Charlie says. "Let's go."

Jeremy stops and hands them both baggy sweatshirts. "Put these on and pull up the hoods. Time to go incognito."

They don their new hoodies and grab their bags. Bass tucks his gun in the waistband of his jeans. The threesome becomes a foursome in the lobby when Will Strausser falls in line with them. They leave the hotel lobby and walk around the back of the building where they see Duncan and Miles standing next to Duncan's Tesla.

Miles glances up and nods at the others just as a gray car pulls up. Even though the color is different, Bass is sure he knows that car. "Is that –" He points when his voice fails.

Duncan nods. "Yeah. It's Connor's car. New paint job. Changed the oil and gave it a tune up. New license plates of course, with four more sets tucked under the back seat. There's also a bag in the trunk filled with various hats, wigs, glasses." She shrugs. "Other stuff too. I'd alternate the disguises and the plates every five or six hours."

Charlie walks over to the car and leans in through the open window. She smiles when she sees the Hula Girl on the dash. Her smile grows even wider when she sees the Rubbermaid tote in the back. She glances over at Bass. "Everything is back in here. Even the stuff you moved to the Range Rover when we were in Vegas."

Duncan points to the back seat. "Replaced the carpet back there. A big chunk was hacked out for some reason. It looked ridiculous."

Bass and Charlie exchange a glance, remembering that day when she'd been cuffed to the back seat and had puked in the floorboard. Bass runs his hand along the smooth gray hood. "Thanks, Duncan. This is good." He lets out a low sigh. "It's very good."

Charlie throws her bag in the back next to the music tote. "You said you have a bunch of disguises. How far away are we going, exactly?"

Miles steps forward then, putting an arm around her shoulders. "We don't know, kid. You're supposed to drive north on the PCH. Nora will call you at some point with directions. She wouldn't tell us any details. Couldn't. It's part of the deal." He looks pained.

"So this is really goodbye?" Charlie's chin quivers and Miles pulls her into an embrace.

His eyes are wet, but he keeps the tears from spilling over. "It's goodbye _for now_. That's all. Once this bounty bullshit is lifted and you guys are safe, we'll find you. We'll come to you. That's a promise."

She nods, gathering her composure. "Yeah. Okay, goodbye for now. I can handle that."

Charlie gives her uncle one more hug and then goes over to Will and Jeremy to say goodbye. Miles walks toward Bass. "Take care of her, and take care of you, too. I need both of you to be okay."

Bass nods. "I'll take care of her. That's a promise."

"Here." Miles holds out his hand.

"A phone?"

"It's Nora's burner. She's the only one with the number. Don't lose this one, okay?"

Bass chuckles. "You have zero faith in me."

Miles laughs too, but then the laughter dies and his expression is serious. "You're wrong about that, you know. I have total faith in you, or I wouldn't be letting you ride off into the sunset with my only flesh and blood."

"Thanks, Miles. You won't be sorry."

The two old friends share a hug. Miles is the first to pull away. "Get on, now. You got places to go."

After a few more goodbyes, Bass and Charlie are back in Connor's Cutlass Ciera. Charlie taps her fingertip against the stereo console. "Look. They gave us a new CD player too."

"We already listened to all the disks."

She shrugs. "We'll just listen to them again."

"Yeah, that sounds good." Bass takes a deep breath and turns the key in the ignition. "Connor would like that we're still listening to his favorite songs."

She selects a random disk from the tote and looks at the cover. "How about Kansas?"

He nods. "Good choice."

Charlie pops the disk into the car's new CD player and puts the empty case in the console between their seats. As the music begins to play, he reaches for her hand. She takes it, squeezing his fingers firmly. As the car begins to increase speed and the little plastic hula dancer begins to sway; the car fills with the soft swell of music…

 _Carry on my wayward son_

 _There'll be peace when you are done_

 _Lay your weary head to rest_

 _Don't you cry no more_

 _Once I rose above the noise and confusion_

 _Just to get a glimpse beyond the illusion_

 _I was soaring ever higher, but I flew too high_

 _Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man_

 _Though my mind could think I still was a mad man_

 _I hear the voices when I'm dreamin', I can hear them say_

 _Carry on my wayward son_

 _There'll be peace when you are done_

 _Lay your weary head to rest_

 _Don't you cry no more…._

"You ready for what's coming next?" Bass's eyes are teary but his smile crinkles the edges of his bright blue eyes when he looks at her. The question is loaded and they both know it. Their future is unknown and uncertain, but they are facing it together, and neither of them can think of anyone else they'd want along for this journey.

Charlie grins and her eyes sparkle with promise. "Yes. I'm ready."

 **END**

* * *

 **A/N – There it is - the conclusion to "Taken" (and it only took me a year and a half). Ha!**

 **Music credit for this chapter: "Carry On Wayward Son" was a single recorded by Kansas and written by Kerry Livgren.**

 **Thanks a million times over to each of you who stuck around, read and commented or sent emails or even just read silently. I really can't tell you how much your support has meant to me. There is an epilogue to this story. It is totally finished and ready to publish, but I think I'll wait to see that all the usual folks have read this final chapter before I post that last bit.**

 **This story started out as a birthday gift for Romeo and it continues to be that. I hope she enjoys it as much as I enjoyed working on it – even though her birthday has come and gone twice since I first began to write it.**

 **I loved writing this story and turning something dark and scary into something hopeful. I loved incorporating as many canon characters as possible and I loved plotting out a cross-country road trip. There were times though, where I struggled with parts of this story. There was writer's block and real life stuff that got in the way. There were times when I didn't think I'd finish it at all, and that's where WildIrish and TexasRevoFan stepped in to save the day.**

 **In their own ways, they each gave me the will to keep going with this story. Irish was my friend and my therapist and my cheerleader even when I was kind of a mess. Tex was always there with a kind ear and a red pen (both of which I am forever grateful for) and she also served as my American military resource and fact-checker. It is because of their unwavering support that I have expanded the dedication on this story to include them. Thanks guys. You truly are the best.**

 **As some of you may have guessed, this is my final big Revo multi chapter story. It's the longest Charloe fic I've written and it has become my favorite. When I first started writing fan fiction for Charloe, I sure never expected to publish in excess of a million words for this one pairing, but I did. I'm not sure if that's something I should be proud of or something for which I should seek therapy. Maybe both? Regardless, I'm really proud of this particular story. It's not perfect (not even close), but it was so much fun to write and I'm really glad I was able to take this journey with Bass and Charlie.**

 **And with YOU. I'm really glad you came along for the ride too.**

 **PS I am working on wrapping up Iambic Pentameter which is my only remaining Revolution WIP. You can expect to see that finished this summer (I have always promised I'd never leave you with unfinished stories and that, my friends, is a promise I'm going to keep).**

 **Thanks for everything. I love you guys! -Lemon**


	13. Chapter 13: Epilogue

He calls her Sarah.

She calls him Jimmy.

They have a five year old daughter. She has eyes as blue as the ocean and soft golden curls. Dimples dent her cheeks when she smiles, and she always smiles. She has her daddy's sense of humor and her mommy's generous heart.

Jimmy and Sarah and their sweet little girl live on the third floor of a building that housed a button factory during the Great Depression. These days it serves as the one and only homeless shelter in Bradbury, Idaho – the town they call home.

It's been almost six years since the magician named Nora Clayton had placed them here and helped them build new identities. They were here for two years before receiving word that the bounties were officially clear and their lives were no longer in danger.

They talked about going back to being Bass and Charlie. They talked about moving and starting over again, but the idea did not appeal to them at all. They have built a life here, and it is a life they love. Once they'd told Nora their decision, she'd finally allowed them to reach out to Miles and share their location.

Miles, who had retired shortly after he'd said goodbye to Bass and Charlie all those years ago, has been living in Vegas with Duncan ever since. The two had flown to Idaho the day after hearing from their old friends. The reunion had been sweet, and the look on Miles's face as he held his grandniece had been purely beautiful.

Miles and Duncan had caught them up on all the news they'd missed. There was a lot of it...

Jason Neville had eventually been captured and charged with the murder of Connor Bennett as well as treason for selling military secrets. He'll be in prison for the rest of his life. He has given up ever finding his dad. He assumes Frank Blanchard killed him.

Randall Flynn's suicide was a surprise to all who knew him, as was the fact that he died with two framed photographs clutched to his chest. One was of his dead son, Eddie. The second was of the recently incarcerated Jason Neville.

Not quite two years into his sentence, Frank Blanchard was found dead in his cell. His hands and ankles were bound and his back was criss-crossed with angry red welts. It wasn't the whipping that had killed him though. Nobody knows who snapped Frank's neck while he was trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, and the truth is, nobody cares.

* * *

The Summer day is warm, but box fans are situated at all the windows in the dining hall, stirring enough air to make the space comfortable. Jimmy and Sara and their two employees are handing out apples and peanut butter sandwiches and little cartons of yogurt. Their daughter sits at a corner table under a big window with a box of crayons and a coloring book. She hums happily to herself, surrounded by familiar faces and sounds and smells.

Sometimes she takes a break from coloring to deliver juice boxes to young children who are visiting with their parents.

On this particular day, Charlie is helping an older gentleman by taking his tray to his table. "Here you go, Ed."

Bass walks up behind his wife, and taps her on the shoulder before wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close. "Good day today. Just gave out the last of the sandwiches. Oh, and I think Betty found a lead on a job."

Charlie beams up at him. "That's great! I have news too. Arnold has agreed to go to AA meetings."

He laughs. "He's taken his sweet time, but I'm glad he's finally coming around." Bass squeezes her shoulders. "It was a good day, huh?"

"Yeah. A great day." Charlie leans up and kisses his cheek. "Hey, where's our little princess? She was just here."

Bass smiles, nodding toward a far table. "She's over in her usual spot. No worries."

Charlie feels a sense of peace like she's never felt before. Wrapped in Bass's arms and watching their precious little girl makes her feel complete. "Thank you," she whispers to her husband. Her voice is husky with emotion.

"Thanks for what?"

"For everything. For loving me. For trusting me. For our baby girl. For taking me in the first place."

Bass feels a swell of love surge into his heart. After all he's been through and all he's lost; he never thought he'd ever feel so content again. "Pretty sure I'm the one who should be thanking you. For not running when you had the chance and for giving me a second one."

Ed looks up, smiling around a mouthful of apple. "Oh, get a room you two."

Bass grins down at Charlie. "He has a point. You try to convince her to put away her crayons. I'll make sure the others have everything under control with clean up. Meet you back here in fifteen?"

"Deal."

* * *

The little girl is feeling sleepy, but she isn't ready to take a nap - at least not till she's done with the picture she's coloring. She hums to herself as she colors, loving her spot at this table where the sunlight streams in, warming her. This location also provides a good view of the entire dining hall and she likes to see what's going on.

A friendly looking man approaches her sunny table and stands close, watching her. The little girl looks up through golden curls, taking him in. Her blue eyes shine with welcome as she smiles at the stranger. "Hello."

He smiles back. "May I sit with you?"

She nods and her curls bounce as she sets down her green crayon. "Of course. My mommy always says our house is your house."

"You live here?"

"Upstairs with my mommy and daddy. We like to help people. That's what we do here."

"It looks like you help a lot of people. I think that's great."

She scoots over. "Do you need help?"

"I just wanted to visit. Is that okay?"

"Sure. Would you like to color with me?"

"Not right now, but thank you for asking." The man slides into the seat beside her. "What's your name?"

"I'm Ciera King. I'm in Kindergarten. Did you know I was named after a car?" The little girl scrunches her nose in distaste. "I wish they'd named me Elsa or Ana."

"It could be worse. They could have named you Cadillac or Honda or Ford." The man's eyes twinkle as he teases the little girl. "I think Ciera is a lovely name and it is perfect for you."

She tilts her head curiously, reaching up to tug on a tendril of the man's longish hair. "I guess it's okay. Sure wouldn't want to be called Honda." She giggles before yawning. "I like your hair. It's kind of like mine." Ciera rubs at her eyes tiredly, but asks her new friend, "Are you hungry?"

He shakes his head no, laughing at the way she switches topics so quickly. "Not right now, but thank you for asking. You are a very kind little girl."

She looks up with wide solemn eyes. "Nobody should be hungry. Not ever."

"Is that also something your mommy and daddy always say?"

She nods but can't contain another big yawn.

"You look sleepy. Maybe it's time for a nap?"

"Maybe." She gets up and starts to walk away but turns quickly to face her new friend again. "I almost forgot. What's your name?" she asks. "Will you stay here very long?"

The man smiles, his brown eyes twinkling. "My name is… well, you can call me Hermano."

Ciera giggles. "That's a silly name. Were you named after a car too?"

"Nope." His grin is wide and his brown eyes sparkle with joy. "I think we're going to be great friends, Ciera. As for how long I stay - well, that all depends on you. I'll stay as long as you'll have me."

"Our house is your house," she says again. "So, I guess - welcome home!" Her tired little smile fades into another yawn. "I think I gotta go take that nap now. I really am sleepy. Good bye, Hermano."

"Happy dreams, Ciera. I'll see you again soon."

* * *

Charlie is waiting for Bass when Ciera walks up with arms raised. "Pick me up?"

"You are far too big for -"

Ciera tilts her head and looks at her mom with exhausted blue eyes. Charlie sighs with a smile, and picks up her daughter. Ciera nestles her face against her mommy's neck. "Love you, mommy."

"Love you too, sleepy head."

"I have a new friend," the little girl mumbles tiredly.

Bass joins them as they near the stairwell that will take them upstairs. "Oh yeah? Who was it this time?" he asks. "Cinderella? Rapunzel? That snowman that talks?"

"Be nice to her," Charlie scolds with a smile. "Imaginary friends can be an important part of growing up."

Ciera is almost out, her long lashes shadowing plump cheeks. "Wasn't Olaf. Was Hermano."

Bass stops short and looks back at the empty table where Ciera had been sitting by herself for the last hour. The afternoon light is warm and casts the space in a soft amber glow where small dust particles dance through the air like fairy dust.

Charlie kisses Ciera's head. "Hermano is a funny name. Are you sure he wasn't named Herman?"

"Nope. Name was Hermano."

"Well, that's nice." Charlie pats her daughter absently and turns to Bass, "Hey, you coming?"

"Yeah. Of course." Bass feels a lightness in his chest and he takes a deep breath before falling in behind them and patting his daughter on the back. "Hermano, huh? Do you know what that word means?"

Ciera's mouth has fallen slack in sleep. Charlie looks at Bass oddly. "Is it Spanish for friend?"

Bass's voice is low and raspy with emotion when he answers. "Not friend, Charlie. Hermano is the Spanish word for brother."

 ***** End *****

 **A/N One huge final thank you to all who stuck around. Leave a comment if you have a moment.**


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